


theón kai andrón

by portraitofemmy



Series: Hedges, Bitch [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Claiming, Deepthroating, Detective Work, Discussion of Past Child Abuse, Discussions of Addiction, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hedge Witch Quentin Coldwater, Hedge Witches, Heist, Light Dom/sub, Light daddy kink, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Prostate Milking, Quentin Coldwater is a sub, Riding, Rimming, Season/Series 2 AU, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-12 02:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Eliot Waugh’s coven of hedge witches contains some of the highest caliber of magic users in New York. They have respect, and influence, and a steady supply of new magic. But when a local hedge coven is found dead, hearts ripped from their chest, the very landscape of the magical world begins to change around them. Eliot, Quentin, and Julia are left rushing to protect the life of a stranger and to try to prevent more slaughter– but at what cost? What price must they pay to reconcile gods and men?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set six months after [Coven(ant)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270153) and examines elements of Season 2 of the show in that universe. You could probably read this without reading that, thought it does give you an introduction into the character dynamics. This story is **complete** and will be posted over the course of the next week or so. 
> 
> Finally, this story exists because [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) loved _Coven(ant)_ so much. It would not have made it beyond an idea without her support, cheerleading, and feedback. I am a needy, needy baby and she feeds me reassurance like candy. She’s also undertaken the massive effort which is beta reading a small novel. So thank you, again and again. You make me words good <3

The networks of news channels that connected the Hedge Covens of the broader NYC area were not the most reliable sources of information. Whatever Eliot’s personal opinions and actions in this area might be, covens were naturally inclined to distrust each other. When information needed to be passed from coven to coven, it was pretty much down to the relationships between individual witches, be they good or ill.

Which means that they get the news of the slaughtered coven through Essie’s girlfriend, who is a detective in the NYPD, way before they hear about it from anyone in their network. 

“She says she can get you in before the police turn the place,” Essie explains, walking quickly to keep up with Eliot as he scans through the safe house. It’s not the busiest time of the day, with all the cantrip-witches out living their muggle lives. Only the core group, the ones who see magic as a career and a calling, are to be found lingering around.

“Can you get ahold of Inesa? I want to take her and Aaron with me.”

“Already on it, boss,” Essie mutters, waggling her smartphone at him. Eliot, who isn’t the best at remembering he _has_ a phone, thanks to years of Brakebills and life on the streets breaking him of the habit, nods sharply. Aaron’s in one of the practice rooms in the basement, and he comes easily when Eliot calls to him, falling into step as Eliot sticks his head into the library.

Q’s in there, sitting cross legged on the table with a book in his lap and a laptop open to one side, while Julia’s extrapolating spell circumstances on the rolling whiteboard in front of him. Glancing quickly at it, it seems to be some kind of phase-shifting spell, which immediately seems more like a Julia project than a Quentin one. Therefore, Eliot automatically cares about it a little less, and doesn’t mind interrupting them.

“Hey kiddies, want to go on a field trip?”

Quentin says “Okay,” at the same time Julia says “Where?”

“Brooklyn. Looks like someone attacked a hedge coven, and Essie’s girl is gonna get us in before the cops pull it apart.”

“Gotta love a good murder mystery,” Julia says dryly, but caps her Expo marker definitively. “Let’s go break into a crime scene.”

Inesa meets them on sight, climb off her motorcycle and shaking out her short black hair from her helmet. _“Hola,”_ she greets them, grinning. “I heard you needed a cold can of whoop-ass?”

“Don’t know why he’d call you, then,” Aaron teases, and Eliot rolls his eyes fondly at them, his best battle mages bickering like twins. 

Essie’s girl lets them in, and shows them up to the third floor of what is a very standard, run of the mill Brooklyn studio. He’d been expecting a safe house, but what they’re lead into is definitely just an apartment, and a fairly comfortably decorated one at that. It was the kind of place that felt lived in, and not the kind of place you’d expect to find seven bodies brutally ripped apart. 

Because that’s definitely what they find, in the wide open space of the studio’s main room. 

“Oh, _holy shit,_” Quentin mutters, and Eliot would feel bad bringing him except Quentin’s already pulling out his smartphone and laptop, setting up on the counter with a hotspot to start making a record of what they find. 

The room is _trashed_, there’s blood everywhere, and Eliot can only barely hold on to his own encroaching horror because he’s got a _job to do_. There’s some kind of altar set up near the window, figurines and paintings laid out carefully, scattered through with candles and bowls containing what Eliot can only assume are spell components. Like everything else in the room, it’s _covered_ in blood. Under the bodies and blood and viscera on the floor, he can _just_ make out lines of a ritual circle, drawn on the hardwood in chalk. 

“Q,” he calls, gesturing to the floor. “See if you can record what these sigils were.”

“Got it,” Quentin confirms, pulling out a notebook. 

“Check the rest of the place, see if you can find anything out of the ordinary, magically,” Eliot suggest to Aaron, who nods and breaks off into the bedroom. 

The sense of horror redoubles as Eliot scans the room again, trying to make himself see patterns and not just– lost human life. Julia’s wandered over to stand next to the makeshift altar, bent over with her curtains of long brown hair inches from the blood. Eliot slides up next to her, catching his fingers lightly in her hair to draw it back over her shoulder. 

“Careful, Magician,” he says lightly, and she gives him a slight smile, barely paying attention to anything as she looks back at the figures, all of a woman, robed and haloed, maternal smiles upon their plastic faces. Blood covers the altar, but not as he’d assumed, scattered up from the floor. Instead, the sculptures run red with streams of the stuff. They all look like they’re– bleeding dark red blood from the eyes and nose and mouth. _Fucking hell._

“Some kind of ritual gone wrong, that’s for sure,” Julia murmurs, and goes to reach forward and pick up one of the statues. At Eliot’s warning noise, she pauses, and waits for him to pick it up telekinetically instead, bring it forward so she can get a closer look at it. “Some kind of Virgin Mary worship?”

“No,” Eliot says thoughtfully, rotating the statue in the air. “Something older. _‘Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell.’_” Julia raises an eyebrow, unmoved by his recitation, because she is clearly uncultured in her Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry. “Not Mary, Jules. Much, much older: Persephone. Or ‘Our Lady Underground’ as the kids call her these days.”

_Fucking hell_ indeed. 

“So it’s a group of goddess worshipers?” Julia fills in, looking down at the altar. “Trying to, what? Make an offering?”

“No,” Eliot mutters, because that doesn’t feel right. He’s seen divine magic before, the kind of spell that used worship as the basis for their circumstances. “This doesn’t feel like that. I’m not sure why, but– it’s not that.”

“What else do you do with a god, besides worship them?” 

“Summon them,” Quentin suggests, holding up the sigil he’s been copying off the floor. “This is a summoning spell at its root, though wildly broad and unstable. I can’t imagine they knew what they were doing.”

Eliot turns back to look at the bodies on the floor, carefully stepping over pools of blood to crouch down next to them. Tilting his head, he presses the horror down again, and makes himself look and see what he’s looking at. “Their hearts are missing. If I had to guess, I’d say they opened the door and something else stepped through. I can’t imagine Our Lady Underground is big on ripping people’s hearts out.”

Julia swears softly, and Eliot stands up, moving to look at the scattered detritus on countertop where Q’s abandoned laptop is set up. Whatever this coven had been trying to get into, they were clearly way over their heads. What’s more, they weren’t familiar to him, he didn’t recognize any of these people. There also wasn’t a spell book in sight, anywhere immediately visible in the apartment. 

“We need to find out who their spell supplier was,” Eliot says, looking over to Inesa. “Probably Harriet’s our best lead, these strike me as the ‘find shit online’ type of newbie witches.”

“Or we can let the police handle it,” Inesa suggested, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m not sure it’s really your problem, _jefe.”_

“Something or someone coming into my city and killing a coven _is_ my problem,” Eliot says matter of factly, dusting off his hands. 

Quentin, who’d been circling around the carnage on the floor, comes back towards Eliot now, looking agitated. “Something’s wrong,” he whispers, and Eliot has to stamp down on the impulse to point out that there’s a whole lot of fucking things _wrong_ in this place. Q’s not commenting on general fuckedness of the situation, Eliot knows him better than that. 

“What do you mean?” Eliot asks, and lets Quentin catch his hand, tug him to the back right corner. 

“Something’s _broken_ here,” Quentin explains, gesturing nervously to what appears to be a completely whole table and bookshelf. Spattered with blood, sure, like the rest of the apartment, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary beyond that. “I don’t know, there’s nothing but I can _feel_ it calling to me. Something’s broken and is asking to be whole.”

Humming, Eliot pinches his fingers out in front of himself, expanding them into the little window of a magical screen. Everything’s tinged with an illusion spell, in almost a perfect line from one edge of the corner to the other. Scanning down, he has just enough time to register that the table actually is broken, skinned with an illusion over a foot-long crack in it’s top, before he sees through the window– a woman.

Just in time for her to pop a blast of battle magic straight into his chest, sending him flying backwards. 

His head cracks into the floor with a sharp bloom of pain and the spread of greyness across his vision. There’s not a second to even feel it through, he’s already struggling up to see the girl fling herself out of the illusory barrier and bolt for the door– Only to run smacking into the glittering force of a shield, Quentin’s face scrunched in concentration with his crossed hands splayed, pinky fingers curled together. 

Inesa and Aaron spring into action immediately, perfectly in sync like they always are, that’s why Eliot _brings them_ to things like this. Aaron scrambles for the door, slamming it shut, working through a locking spell with confidence on his dark face. Inesa’s as fast, her short black hair falling forward into her face as she reaches out and flicking through a series of movements until magical bindings appear on the woman’s wrist. Eliot knows that spell very well, for very different reasons. 

“I got her,” Inesa mutters, eyes flicking over to Q. “No worries, _mi vato._”

“_Gracias,_” Q breathes out, his pinched face smoothing out as he lets the shield fall. He turns to Eliot immediately, crouching down next to him with worry on his lovely face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Eliot snaps, annoyed at himself for being caught by such an obvious trap. His head throbs, and the world swims a little as he pushes himself up, but he ignores it, grits his teeth through the dizziness.

“You’re covered in blood,” Quentin mutters, concerned, standing up to. He’s reaching out, fingers brushing against the sleeve of Eliot’s suit jacket.

“It’s not my blood,” Eliot says darkly. Then, more softly, because Q cares about him and he shouldn’t be taking that for granted. “I’m fine, little witch, stop worrying.”

“Yeah, because that definitely works,” Quentin mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Eliot. Eliot wants to go to him, stroke his hair and soothe him, but now is _really_ not the time, not with a girl struggling against magical bonds 4 feet from them. Eliot turns to her, assessing.

She’s dressed in white, same as the bodies on the floor, and absolutely soaked in blood. Her wild dark curly hair is drenched with it, and so is her face, tear tracks visible because they’ve cut through the gore. She’s shaking, held in place by Inesa’s spell, but she meets his gaze head on, defiant, when he walks around to face her.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that popping off battle magic is a bad way to make friends?” Eliot says lightly, taking in the hedge tattoos on her arm. “You’re not doing a lot to convince me that you didn’t murder your own coven.”

“Fuck you,” the girl spits, and Eliot feels a little bad, because she’s obviously upset. But only a little, because he’s going to be bruised for _days._

“Eliot, I know her.” Julia’s still standing by the altar, looking at the girl with a look of surprised recognition. 

“Hold please,” Eliot says brightly, turning away and stepping over towards Julia so they can talk more quietly.

“She went to Brakebills with me my first year. She disappeared at Brakebills South, though, there was all kinds of gossip about it. Some people were saying she fucked Mayakovski, or there was some drama with another student. I’m not sure where she went after that.”

“It’s not surprising she cropped up in a hedge,” Eliot murmurs, looking over at the girl, still defiant but admittedly a little shaky and covered in blood. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Just that her name’s Kady and she was a battle mage. Really powerful, I guess.”

Eliot hums, watching the girl curiously as members of his coven hover around her.

“Do you think she’s capable of something like this?” He asks, gesturing to the body’s scattered on the floor.

“No,” Julia says firmly, looking back at the girl. “Eliot, look at her, she’s terrified. She was hiding when we got here. It was just fight or flight, you know?”

“Some of both, maybe.” Eliot paces back over to Kady, who’s doing her absolute best to remain composed. “Okay, my friend here doesn’t think you did this, which means you’re probably twelve different kinds of fucked up right now, and I have a lot of questions. So I’m going to give you have a choice: you can come back with us, to my safehouse, or you can stay here and talk to the police. You have to play nice, though. I’m a big fan of second chances, but if you blow that? We have a problem. Understand me?”

“Yes,” Kady says, still defiant, sharp on all her edges. He nods to Inesa, who drops the bonds, and Kady nearly staggers over. She only avoids ending up spawled in the blood on the floor because Julia’s there to catch her.

“Everyone else, pack up,” Eliot instructs, turning back to the rest of his witches. “Our limited window of time is officially run out.”

The throb in Eliot’s skull and against his breastbone spike sharply as he casts the portal back to the safehouse, but he thinks he covers it well. Not as well as he might like, though apparently, because the moment they step into the safe house, Q’s calling out “Someone get Mei!”

“I’m fine, Jesus, stop shouting,” Eliot protest, leaning a hand delicately against the banister. The back of his head throbs in time with his heartbeat, and he reaches up to touch it gingerly. His hair is tacky with drying blood, but he’s relatively certain it’s not his.

“You’re a stubborn bitch, is what you are,” Quentin mutters, sliding under Eliot’s arm, which Eliot allows because he likes being close to Q and not at all because he’s in danger of falling over. “Listen, Mei should check Kady over anyway, so just. Stand there, and let her look at you too.”

Surprising absolutely no one, Eliot is not a very good patient. He grudgingly allows Mei to scan him over, bossing people around the whole time. He tells Julia to take Kady somewhere to clean up and get her some spare clothes from the training room. Inesa, he sends out to FuzzBeat headquarters to see if Harriet knows anything about this mystery coven.

“Can you start digging into the sigil?” Eliot asks Q, who’s hovering nearby, fiddling nervously as Mei prods at the back of Eliot’s scalp.

“Yeah, of course,” he agrees, and does not leave Eliot’s side until Mei gives him the all-clear.

“I’d usually give you some kind of higher-end pain-killer, but I know you won’t take it.” Mei starts and Eliot laughs. Mei’s treated enough of his minor bumps and bruises to know Eliot avoids narcotics, even if she doesn’t know why.

“I’ll take a Tylenol,” he says, standing and straightening his vest. “I’m fine, Quentin just worries.”

“Fuck me for caring, right?” Quentin says sarcastically, but he seems satisfied now. He stretches up onto his toes for a soft kiss, and then pulls his bag up off the floor. “Come find me before you leave tonight?”

“Of course,” Eliot murmurs, affection sweeping through him as he watches Quentin walk away.

“You two are gross,” Mei says, cheerfully. Eliot flips her off, then gestures for her to follow him into the living room, where Julia has Kady set up with some coffee and a blanket on the couch. She’s at least gotten all the blood of her face and arms, and changed into some clean clothes.

Mei sits down on the couch in front of her, and Eliot settles onto the table, arms crossed over his chest. “So, hello Kady. I’m Eliot.”

“Hey,” She says guardedly. “Sorry I blasted you.”

Eliot hums, feeling the persistent pounding of his skull- inconvenient but nothing more in the long run. “Yes, that was irritating. What was your coven trying to do?”

“Summon Our Lady Underground.” The way she says it sounds like _‘duh’_, like it should be obvious. And well, it kind of is, but also doesn’t really answer the question.

“Why?”

“Because we wanted to ask her for things? Why the fuck else would you summon a god?”

“Well, I wouldn’t, generally,” Eliot points out, flippant, patience wearing thin with every throb of his skull. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know, I just– We did the spell and stood in a circle, and– prayed. And then– She appeared. Our Lady Underground, she was there. The power coming off of her, you have no idea. It was a like a fucking font of divine magic. She was beautiful, and we thought– But it was _wrong,_ something went _wrong._ Her eyes– changed, and it– said his name was Reynard. He took Richard’s face– and I ran, and I hid, and threw up wards and I watched as whatever he was– killed them all.”

Horror seems to overwhelmed Kady, the mug in her hands beginning to shake. Julia, who’s managed to worm her way into Eliot’s coven because compassion is her personal strength and he’s soft for that kind of thing, reaches out to comfort her. Julia rubs her shoulder soothingly, and to Eliot’s mild surprise, Kady allows it. 

“Can you tell me anything more about what he looked like?” Eliot asks, gently, but all Kady can get out is a dry sob. Julia gives him a pointed look, and Eliot sighes, leaning back into his chair to give Kady the time she needs to center herself. Once she’s caught her breath, he changes tack. “So why’d you leave Brakebills?”

“Look, it wasn’t exactly my choice, alright?” Kady laughs, horrible and thick with grief. “Do you think I’d chose this fucking scrap-heap of an existence over–”

“Living under the control of people who treat magic like a privilege? Maybe. Some might.” Kady’s silent, and Eliot has a moment of shocking kinship, a recognition of bravado over a stattered interior. “So you got kicked out, but they let you keep your memories?”

“I ran away,” Kady mutters, and she’s not meeting Eliot gaze. He watches her patiently, but she’s a stubborn fuck, that’s for sure. “Mayakovsky caught me stealing his spells. Told me I could leave of my own free will from Brakebills South, or go back and deal with Fogg. Choice was obvious.”

“Why were you stealing spells?”

“Because I was in over my head with a coven, okay? Listen, I was stuck paying back someone else’s debt, and I never thought I’d get out. Then shit went down, and I pissed off the wrong people, and I had to disappear from the hedge scene for a while. But Richard’s group mostly traded spells online, and they didn’t know anyone in any of the other covens, so I thought, why not give it a try. I mean, none of us would choose to live without magic, right?”

Suspicions confirmed, Eliot nods. “Who were you smuggling for? Who’d you piss off?” 

“Marina.”

“Motherfucker,” Eliot swears, impressed against his will. “You smuggled shit out of Brakebills to _Marina_ and you bailed out on her? Well, you’ve got balls of solid iron, I’ll give you that.”

Kady rolls her eyes, drawing in on herself defensively. “Look, whatever that _thing was,_ it’s going to come looking for me. I think it basically only let me go because it was occupied with everyone else and I got the spell up in time. I’ve heard of you, I know you went to Brakebills and you’re basically the top bitch on this coast in terms of raw power. Marina’s not going to help me, and no other coven is going to take me. Can you protect me from a vengeful god? Otherwise, I will just leave you and your twitchy fucking witches alone.”

“I don’t know,” Eliot says honestly, giving her an assessing look. “You’d be safest at Brakebills, but I’m not sure even their wards could hold out something of the power level you’re describing, if he knew to look for you there. I might be able to hide you, though. So he doesn’t know where to start looking. The question is– why should I?”

“Because he’s not going to stop,” she says pointedly, then gestures around at the rest of the safe-house. “If he’s a– a god or a monster or something else. He knows how to prey on hedges. He’ll keep coming for us.”

“If that’s the case, then we should try to bring the other Covens in. Talk to them all, see if we can set up some line of defense. Warn them, at the very least.”

“Can you do that?” Julia asks, and Eliot laughs, bitter.

“Well, I can try. I can get them all in a room. Whether they agree to work together or kill each other on the spot is kind of dependent on the weather.” He sighs, scrubs his hands over his face. His head’s still throbbing. “You can crash here for now, let Mei take a look at you. We’re not exactly set up for over nights, but the couches aren’t terrible to sleep on.”

“I’ve slept in worse places, believe me,” Kady says, and then gives Eliot a cautious look. “Thank you. I _am_ sorry I popped you.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “I understand survival instinct. We might end up being glad for your trigger-happy spell work, later on.”

Eliot leaves Mei and Julia to look after Kady, heading up to his office to send a message to Margo. She’s in Japan, and probably asleep, but she’ll get an email in the morning. He misses her, as sharply as the ache in his skull, an emotional mirror to the ache in his breastbone. Margo would know what to do, here, he’s sure of it. She’d pull a solution of the air with a huff and a derisive comment. 

It’s 5pm by the time he’s ready to call it quits for the night, the lines of his email server swimming in front of his eyes. Mei’d said he didn’t have a concussion, but the headache is still fucking brutal. Going home and not thinking about work for a while sounded amazing. Trouble was, every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is ripped apart bodies, blood and gore everywhere. He’s in the process of closing up his files when Quentin appears in the doorway

“Hey,” Q says, knocking on the doorframe quietly with two knuckles. Eliot looks up, feeling himself relax instinctively just at the sight of him. Q smiles, stepping into the room and Eliot stops what he’s doing, leaning back on the desk to open his arms, fold Q into a hug. 

“Hey, I was just about to come find you. I think I’m going to head home.”

“Can I come with you?” Q asks, and he’s getting better about asking, not just waiting for Eliot to invite him into his space. Which is endearing in its own way, but Eliot _wants_ Q around, pretty much all the time. It’s nice to feel like it’s reciprocated. 

Eliot has been to Julia and Quentin’s shared apartment exactly once, to pick Q up for a date. He’d been given a tour, and even that once over had been enough to confirm to him that the space was much more Julia’s than Quentin’s. From what he’s gathered of their shared history, Q lived in on-campus housing for grad school, and the living arrangement with Julia is a hang-over from undergrad that they’ve fallen back into out of habit. Aside from some Fillory memorabilia and the posters in his bedroom, Quentin just doesn’t seem inclined to take up a lot of space. 

At this point, there is probably about as much of Quentin’s stuff in Eliot’s loft as there is in the apartment he ostensibly pays rent for. Really, all Q has to disperse to begin with is clothes and books, and his laptop which travels pretty much everywhere with him. And well, Eliot has a lot of bookshelves, and a lot of tasteful bohemian-chic knick knacks that can absolutely go other places. Closet space has become something of an issue, but most of Q’s clothes could be folded, anyway, tucked in drawers under the bed.

The reality is, they all spend most of their time in the safe-house anyway. At some point, Quentin’s first-edition copies of _Fillory & Further_ had taken up residence in Eliot’s office, tucked in between a series of translocation spell books and a russian dictionary. He looks at them now, as Quentin’s fingers pull softly at his vest.

“Yeah, of course you can come home with me. But– I promise I’m fine, Q.”

“I know, I trust Mei,” Quentin says pointedly, the _I don’t trust you to tell me you’re hurt_ going implied. It irritates Eliot, a little, but only because he knows there’s a kernel of truth to it. “Do I need a reason to go home with you?”

“No, little witch,” Eliot murmurs, and tipping his face down until he can hide it in Quentin’s shoulder. He feels tired, and old, and like he really wants a fucking drink, or maybe a heroin hit. “I always want you in my bed.”

Q, when Eliot pulls back to look at him, looks a little embarrassed, but pleased nonetheless. “Well, that’s what you get for having a fucking _parking lot_ for a bed, El. Might be less lonely if it didn’t take up half a city block–” 

Eliot kisses him to shut him up, but it just makes him giggle against Eliot’s lips. 

They part briefly while Quentin goes to collect his stuff, Eliot taking the time to lockup and ward his office. They could portal out, but his apartment is only a few blocks away, and the portal earlier had dragged a lot of strain on his bruised body. A few minutes walk never hurt anyone. A brief detour to snag some take-out for dinner, and they’re on their way up to Eliot’s loft in no time. 

Eating Indian food out of take-out containers while watching British Bake-off is a pretty good way to slowly let go of the horrors of the day. Eliot finds himself watching Q more than the show, his running commentary the highlight of the experience. Quentin’s earnest and judgemental, opinionated and bitchy, like he’s ever baked anything in his life that didn’t come out of a box. 

“He’s going to overproof it if he puts it in the proofing drawer,” Quentin says sagely, smearing a chunk of naan bread through his curry, and Eliot feels so over-come with affection he can barely contain himself. Leaned back into the couch like he is, it’s easy to reach out and touch Q, who’s sitting close enough that Eliot can feel the warmth of his thigh. He’d shed his sweater when they got in, and now only a thin t-shirt separates Eliot’s hand from his skin, warmth bleeding through the soft material.

“Thanks for looking out for me today,” he says softly, rubbing his palm over Quentin’s back. 

“Of course,” Q says softly, abandoning his curry to sink back into the coach, cuddle up against Eliot. “I wish I’d been able to act faster.”

“You did great,” Eliot murmurs, slipping into his teacher voice just a bit. “Excellent form on the shield, good reaction time. Battle magic’s hard to do.”

“Did I earn a new star?” Quentin teases, flirting a little, eyes sparkling. Eliot reaches out, takes his arm to trace across the tattoos decorating his skin. There’s six of them now, each representing mastery of a new technique. 

“Not yet,” he says cheerfully, rubbing the tips of his fingers over Q’s newest mark. It’s a little sensitive, still, makes Q shiver and lean into him. “Eager little witch.”

“Always,” Quentin murmurs, nuzzling forward until Eliot gives in and kisses him.

They kiss slow and dirty, sweet and deep, TV show and take out utterly forgotten. Eliot’s sinking into it, the relief that is existing in a physical body, of wanting easy, animal things, ready to pull Q into his lap and make him stay there until they both get off. That is, until Q’s fingers slide through his hair and accidentally tug on the tender spot on his scalp.

“Ah, _fuck,_” he swears, breaking away, wincing at the throb that spreads through his entire skull.

“Shit!” Quentin swears, lifting his hands away immediately. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot sighs, waiting for his vision to clear. “I mean, I hurt in about six different places, and you should probably not touch my head at all, but I’m not like. Irreparably damaged.”

“Jesus,” Quentin swears, eyebrows drawing in to a worried point. “How’s your chest where she wapped you?”

“Aches,” Eliot admits, watching as Q makes a thoughtful noise, moving until he’s straddling Eliot’s thighs on the couch.

“Can I?” He asks, fingers brushing against Eliot’s tie. His vest is hanging open already, and on a wordless nod from Eliot, Q sets to work on the complicated knot. He’s methodical and concentrated about it, and Eliot watches him work with a little smile on his face.

“Good boy,” he whispers, once Q gets the knot free, watching the way it sends little happy shivers through Quentin’s body. He leaves the tie hanging loosely around Eliot’s shoulders, moving on to the buttons of his shirt. They give away under Q’s hands, and Eliot can’t stop watching his face, breathless with how erotic it is to be the center of his focus.

“Oh,” Quentin whispers, once his shirt is undone, and he can see the red mottled bruise already starting on Eliot’s breastbone. “Oh, Jesus, El. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s just a bruise,” Eliot whispers, rubbing his open palms against the outside of Q’s thighs. “You could kiss it better for Daddy, though.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, blushing scarlet, because somehow this is the _one thing_ he can’t work himself up to not being embarrassed about. But he does, anyway, leans forward to press a series of soft, open mouthed kisses down the center of Eliot’s chest. He slides to the floor, and Eliot spreads his legs, lets him in close. 

When Quentin’s fingers go for his belt, Eliot flails for the remote, flipping the TV off. There’s some things you just don’t want Paul Hollywood’s face staring at you for. 

Q’s mouth is beautifully warm, wonderfully eager. He sinks down on Eliot’s half-hard cock, working it gently with his tongue. Like this, not fully hard, Quentin can take most of him, and it’s almost painfully good, sharp little waves of pleasure radiating out from his groin. Q pulls off, stroking Eliot and looking up at him with an attentive gaze.

“Look at you, little one,” Eliot murmurs, reaching forward to brush his fingers against Q’s lips. “Work my balls, baby, come on.”

Quentin does, and his hot wet mouth feels like bliss. It’s easy to get lost in it, in Q’s determination and how sweetly responsive he is. The pain and horror of the day recede, until Eliot is only this, the pleasure cresting through his body and the sweet little witch at his feet.

He takes Q to bed after, up to the second floor balcony which houses the bedroom. Stripping Q down to his skin, Eliot sinks finger after finger into his body until Quentin’s practically crying with it, riding back and begging mindlessly, just begging. For what, Eliot doesn’t even know. Tries to give it to him anyway. Q comes with a shocked, sharp sound, Eliot three fingers deep inside him and hand around his cock. He’s beautiful, given over to pleasure with utter abandon, and Eliot tells him so. “_Mine,_” he whispers against Quentin’s lips, and feels Q melt into the bed in response.

Hours later, they drift off to sleep curled together in Eliot’s big bed, so wrapped together it’s impossible to believe they’d ever felt lonely. 

__

Finding neutral ground for a hedge gathering was a _pain in the ass._

The trouble was, most people would be willing to come to Eliot. Harriet, Joaquin, Anita and a handful of smaller covens either came through Eliot’s safe house regularly, or sent their witches to rent spell books from him. Even Pete probably would be on board with treating Eliot’s safe-house like neutral ground, though he refused to work with Eliot on the basis of some kind of dick-swing machismo pride that Eliot was frankly too gay to understand.

The big sticking point was Marina. She refused to come within 3 blocks of their wards on principle, and having the gathering without her was _pointless._

“Why can’t you have it at the FuzzBeat headquarters again?” Kady asks, from where she’s leaning against the wall in Eliot’s office. “Didn’t you say they’re mobile? They can just relocate after.”

“They’re full to the gills with magically enhanced tech,” Margo’s voice calls out of the mirror on Eliot’s, magically magnified so it sounds as though she’s standing in the room. “Your little group was all digital all the time. Until we’re sure whatever this twatface is doing to trace hedges isn’t tied to tech, we need to be all Library of Alexandria up in this bitch.”

“Speaking of Libraries,” Eliot says, wrinkling his nose. “Harriet’s in a low-key guerilla war with the Library of the Neitherlands, right now. Which is frustrating, because they probably have books that could help us identify Renyard.”

“Pencil pushing sons of bitches,” Margo grumbles, a sentiment with which Eliot strongly agrees.

“What about somewhere not warded?” Julia suggest, from where she’s sitting on the couch next to Quentin. “Just like a park or a bar or something.”

“So Reynard can turn up in the middle of it and take out all of the hedge leaders in the Northeast in one go? Yeah, pass,” Kady snips.

“Our best bet,” Eliot says, resigned, “Would be somewhere like Brakebills. A place set up and protected for classically trained Magicians. Somewhere protected, but off of anybody’s personal turf. But you need credentials to get into places like that, and M and I are the only people who have those.”

“And me,” Julia points out, which, right. Magician. “Look, what if we take it out of New York City? Make everyone portal somewhere.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” Quentin pipes up, that excited look on his face which means he’s about to start in on a subject he could talk for hours about. “So, like, Yale has one largest rare books libraries in the world, right? It’s financially independent from the University, and governed by a trust. Which, is like really cool because, it’s this like, center for knowledge that _should_ be accessible to everyone, not just the people–”

“Q,” Eliot cuts in fondly, because just because he would listen to Q talk for hours doesn’t mean everyone else in this room wants to. “Point?”

“Right, well. There’s a small portion of the rare books and manuscripts that are magical. So the whole library is warded. Anti-decay charms, anti-theft charms, also a bunch of wards to hide magical activity from your average Yale-y. But it’s also open to researchers, so. We’d just need to make a request, and get access to a reading room. If one of you Brakebills people made a magical research request, we could maybe even get a warded one.”

“That’s actually pretty fucking brilliant,” Margo pipes up, which makes Quentin to go all wiggly and pleased at her praise. “Are they connected to the Library of the Neitherlands?”

“I’d have to check, but I don’t think so. All I know about the magical aspects of the Beinecke Library is based on research I’ve done in the last couple months. I’d guess there might be a sort of– interlibrary loan system in place? But they’re still a part of the university. It’s not like Brakebills was inherently answerable to the Library.”

“What do you think the chances are they have an ancient text on Persephone?” Julia asks, lips quirked in a half smile.

“It’s worth a shot,” Kady admits. “If just to get us in the door.”

“Alright, it’s a solid plan,” Eliot agrees. “I’ll pitch it. I’m gonna have to limit the other covens to a certain number of people for this, though, it’s going to be a small room. Kady, you’ll need to come. Think you’ll be able to handle talking about what happened?”

“I’ll be fine,” Kady says briskly, and Eliot’ll take her at her word.

“Wish you were here, M,” He sighs, because if he’s only taking one other member of his coven, it should be her.

“I know, baby,” Margo says faux sweetly, and he smiles in spite of himself. “I think we both know my time is better spent heading to Greece to get on the ground research. Take Julia instead, she’s got the credentials and the brains, if not quite the big dick energy.” 

“Um, okay?” Julia mutters, clearly still new to the world of Margo’s insult-compliments. “Thanks? I’d love to tag along.”

“Alright,” Eliot agrees, wincing a little. “Guess I’ve got some phone calls to make.”

It takes some persuading, predictably mostly Marina and Pete dragging their heels about it, but the news of Richard’s coven had managed to disperse eventually, and Eliot can tell everyone’s a little shaken by it. Especially the little covens, the hedge-bar room meet-and-greets and magical book club types, who’ve started to feel the walls closing in on them. But Eliot’s spent almost four years cultivating trust and good will, and it hasn’t been for nothing. Ultimately, a little white lie to both Marina and Pete, telling them each that they’ll be the only coven not represented, is enough to get them in the door.

Eliot feels weird leaving the safe house right now, like he’s leaving a backdoor exposed, but there’s not a lot that can be done about it. He ends up tasking Leelah and Essie with babysitting the cantrip witches, a task they’re more than equipped to handle. Quentin, who was extremely grumpy at the idea of being left behind, uses his honestly-earned Columbia cred to schedule his own reading time, independent of the hedge gathering. 

“That way I’ll be nearby at least,” he points out, and Eliot’s smart enough not to ask _nearby for what?_ He’d be lying if he said that having Q close didn’t make him feel better, however irrationally. 

They take the train up to New Haven, and it would almost be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, except Eliot’s jittery as hell at being out from behind the wards. They’re running a risk taking Kady out, but Freida had scoured the black market for an amulet of disillusionment strong enough to hide from a god. They’d had to trade a pretty rare spell book for it, but that was fine. They’d already copied the spells, and Kady’s life was worth more than the bragging rights of having the original text. Theoretically. 

Eliot’s not so lost in thought that he can’t appreciate the way Q curls up in his seat on the train, tucked into Eliot’s side and legs pulled up, angled so he can stare out the window. He’d been talkative at first, spilling out all the information about the Yale library he’d been holding in up until this point. Kady had rolled her eyes and pointedly put in headphones. Now she and Julia have one ear-bud in each on the other side of the isle, watching something on Julia’s phone, and Eliot had an arm full of mostly quiet Q.

“I took out a call for _Homērikoi Hymnoi,_ which is the most detailed telling of the story of Persephone and Hades in the classical canon,” Quentin says, thoughtfully. “It’s mentioned earlier in Hesiod's _Theogony_, but– the _Hymnoi_ tells the story in more detail.”

“I’m sure it will be predictably rapey and horrible,” Eliot says dryly, and Q snorts softly, rolling his head to nuzzle into Eliot’s shoulder.

“Yeah, probably.”

“How’s your ancient greek?”

“Pretty terrible,” Quentin admits. “Though admittedly better than it would have been six months ago. Who knew studying magic would mean having to learn basically every language ever written?”

“Did I ever tell you how I only passed Arabic at Brakebills because I paid for the test answers in nipple clamps?”

“Oh my _god_, of course you did,” Quentin laughs, and Eliot feels affection tug at his breast bone. “Teacher or TA?”

“TA, please. No teacher’s going to let go of an answer sheet for just _nipple clamps._”

“I must have been the most boring TA, no one ever offered me nipple clamps for test answers.” Quentin grumbles, mock-surly about it.

“What did you TA?” Eliot asks, carefully filing the idea of ‘Quentin and nipple clamps’ to come back to another time. Hopefully in a less public setting.

“Um, ‘Philosophy and Feminism’ in the fall and ‘Symbolic Logic’ in the spring.”

Oh, this cute little _nerd_. “It’s probably good none of your feminism students were trying to bribe you with sex toys, Baby Q.”

It takes a while for Q to say what’s actually eat at him, long enough that Eliot’s mildly curious if he’ll get it out before they arrive in New Haven. But he does, brave little toaster that he is, tucked into Eliot’s side. “I wish I could go with you. I know I’m like... one step above a baby Hedge, but– this feels important and I hate that I can’t be there.”

“You’ll be close,” Eliot says, and doesn’t say _I don’t want them to see how important you are to me._ Even if it’s true. That would feel dangerously like bleeding next to sharks.

“In the building, at least,” Quentin sighs, still a little grumpy, and Eliot kisses the top of his head. 

They part ways once they reach the Beinecke Library, Quentin peeling off to his own reading room while Eliot, Julia and Kady are led into theirs. The book they’d requested wasn’t rare enough to require them to be supervised for their research time, but was magical in nature, enough so that they were given a warded room. Eliot can feel it as soon as they step into the conference room, the buzz of wards on his skin. There’s a window into the main portion of the library, and he points it out to Julia with a nod.

She’s an elegant caster, and it’s tempting to watch her build the illusion spell to mask the window, the thrill of just seeing magic done well. But it’s Eliot’s job now to get everyone else in, so he can’t just sit and watch her. The wards on the library were really build more to keep external portals from pushing into the building, not so much to keep a portal from being opened _inside_ it. 

The coven leaders filter in quickly from their designated pick up locations, packing the small room well beyond capacity as everyone settles in.

There’s no need for introductions, everyone important in this room knows each other, and anyone who doesn’t isn’t going to be remembered. The exception to that is Kady, and even she’s known to some of these people. The looks Marina and Pete give her are so viciously venemonus that Eliot can’t help but wonder if bringing her along was a bad idea after all. 

“Well, we all know why we’re here,” Eliot says dryly, standing up at the front of the room with his hands folded behind his back. “It seems there’s a hedge-hunting god on the loose. Yay.”

“Says her,” Pete cooly, nodding his head towards Katy. “How do–”

“Says me,” Eliot cuts him off, equally cooly, and a couple of the little coven leaders shift around nervously. “I saw the scene, my people have been looking into it. I’m here as a courtesy to all of you, because I think there’s a pretty good chance we’re all in danger.” 

“Look, I’m not enough of an idiot to deny that what happened to that coven was, frankly, horrible,” Marina starts, bitchy, dry, oh Eliot _hates_ her. “But I don’t see any reason to think it’s putting the rest of us in any danger. Baby witches got in over their heads, invited something into their homes and it ate them. Boo hoo, sad for them, no problem for me. ” 

“This wasn’t a fucking _vampire_,” Kady hisses, glaring at Marina. “It wasn’t some supernatural creature that’s going to go off and prey on the muggles now. Yeah, we fucked up, but we _opened a door_ and whatever came through isn’t going to stop now.”

“And you think it’s a _god_,” Marina says, skepticism and derision dripping from her tone.

“Well, the door was opened for a god,” Eliot points out reasonably. “The summoning sigil they used was divine in nature. I’m not saying something else couldn’t have found a way to slip through, but all signs point to a connection with Our Lady Underground.”

A couple of the small hedged leaders mutter, looking nervous.

“So at the very least, all goddess worship should stop now,” Anita says pointedly, looking over at them. “That’s just asking for trouble.”

[[Whatever this is, any danger to the covens makes us vulnerable on all sides]] Harriet signs, and one of her coven translates for her. [[Tightening ranks right now might not be a bad idea]]

“Which is exactly my point,” Eliot finishes, already feeling frustration building. “Look, I know we don’t like each other but we’re all connected, like it or not. There’s lots of people out there who think that a world without hedges would be no loss, and no one but us is going to care if something is picking us off one at a time.”

“You’re still talking like we have any reason to think this wasn’t an isolated incident,” Pete says, slightly incredulous and mocking. “We have no reason to think that.”

“So you want to wait until more of us die? Oh that sounds like a great use of everybody’s time,” Jaoquin returns sarcastically. 

“Frankly, covens that can’t keep themselves protected against this shit aren’t my problem,” Marina cuts back, arms crossing over her chest. “I can’t spend all my time running around cleaning up the messes of amateurs.” 

“You’re all fucking amateurs,” Kady snaps, and Eliot winces. “Eliot and Margo are the only ones who–”

“This isn’t about credentials,” Eliot cuts in, because god almighty, there was no way to turn Marina against him faster.

[[She’s right. We’re all embarrassments to the classic institution. The Library will see someone killing hedges as clean-up crew]]

“I don’t _care_ about your Library, and I still don’t think there’s any reason to believe we’re in any real danger.”

And like that it went, on and on, bickering back and forth as lines were drawn in the sand. Marina and Pete were not going to budge, Eliot could see that now, and enough of the smaller covens were too scared to draw attention to themselves to want to be involved. 

“If any more covens die–”

“There’s no reason to think they _will_–”

“But if they do–”

“I’m not willing to let it go until I’m sure,” Eliot cut through the noise, and like it or not, everyone fell silent to look at him. “I promised Kady my protection, and that means making sure whatever killed those people is really gone.”

“You’re going to _bring attention back to us,_” Marina snaps, and Eliot glares at her. 

“Which is why I could _use some help._”

[[We’ll help]] Harriot pitches in, and Eliot gives her a drawn smile. Anita and Joaquin nod too, which also isn’t surprising.

“Eliot, if you move on this before there’s reason to, I will _rain hell on you_,” Marina says, coldly, and _Eliot hates her so much._

“I’m not making you be involved,” He snaps.

“You get involved, you draw attention back to us,” Pete argues, and honestly Eliot’s had enough.

“If you could crawl out of Marina’s ass long enough to see the writing on the wall, you might disagree,” he returns, bitchily. “It’s clear we’re not all going to agree. I’ve warned you all, which is what I set out to do. If you want to disappear into the woodwork or trust your wards, fine by me. But I’m going to _make sure my coven is safe._”

“If you draw attention back to us, if you put us all in danger, I don’t care, I will _end your coven,_” Marina threatens, and he wishes he could believe it was an ideal threat. 

“You do that, you start a war,” Joaquin says mildly.

“Come at me, bitch.”

“Stop,” Eliot cuts in, because the last thing they need is to start firing off spells in this tiny fucking room in the goddamn Yale Rare Books library. “I won’t make a move without reason, Marina. But I’m going to keep looking into this.”

The glare she levels at him is mutinous. 

“Until Reynard surfaces again, there’s not much we could do anyway,” Julia says softly, and it’s the first time she’s spoken. “Right now it’s all academic, trying to figure out who or what he is. If you’re right and it’s nothing, then research hurts no one.”

It’s a stalemate, but it’s the best they’re going to get. Eliot watches everyone file back out through the portals, and can’t help wondering if he just made things worse in the long run.

__

By the time Eliot gets home that night, the possibility of some kind of catastrophe bearing down on them seems somewhat inevitable. The train ride back from New Haven had been tense, and even with Julia recapping the meeting to Q across the aisle, Eliot couldn’t make himself put a positive spin on it. 

Now, he finds himself sitting on the floor in front of his living room table, pouring over a translation of _Theogony_ and trying to drag some kind of connection out of the text. Nothing in the summoning ritual for Our Lady Underground seemed to call to anything but her. Nothing about it seems like it should have done more than open a door for Persephone.

“I wonder if we’re going about this the wrong way,” Quentin mutters, from where he’s sitting with his laptop on the couch. “We’re focused on what came through when Our Lady Underground didn’t. Maybe we should be looking into _why_ she didn’t come.”

“Because she’s a god and she’s busy? Because it’s winter and she’s trapped with Hades?”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Magic is mathematical and scientific enough that I don’t think we need to pretend we don’t know why the seasons exist.”

“Maybe there is some practical reason for it, maybe she’s like... leashed to the sun and can’t move into the part of the planet tilted away from it. Maybe she’s hanging out in Brazil right now, drinkin’ a Caipirinha.”

“I mean... that’s not the worst idea,” Quentin says, thoughtfully, and Eliot’s swoop of affection is tempered with concern.

“Don’t go digging too deeply into Persephone right now, okay? I didn’t want to give Marina an excuse to go off at us.”

“You think she’d really attack our safehouse?”

“I don’t know,” Eliot admits, scrubs his hands over his face. “I think she thinks she would. I’m not sure if she’s wrong, either, that we wouldn’t be putting everyone else in more danger by following this threat and poking it with a stick.”

“I’ve never seen you worried like this before,” Quentin says softly, and Eliot feels bad, a little, that he can’t tamp it down. He hasn’t been able to tamp down what he’s feeling around Q for a while now.

“Things aren’t usually worth worrying over,” he sighs, and then looks up at Q, who’s a good critical thinker, and braver than Eliot. “What would you do? To keep the coven safe. Because Margo’s going to say go to war, that’s always her answer. And I feel like I can’t see the forest through the trees right now.”

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to try and get perspective from,” Quentin says, not unkindly. “I spent my whole life chasing magic, you know? I can’t... I know it’s been less than a year, but I can’t imagine who I’d be without this coven. Teaching some undergrad philosophy classes while slogging my way to a doctorate just because school was the only thing I understood how to do? How long do you think I would have last at that?”

Eliot winces, because he understands what Quentin is implying and the idea of a world without a Quentin was difficult and unpleasant to comprehend. “Maybe Marina’s right, maybe it was a one-off. Maybe we should just send Kady out into the world and not get involved.”

“Could you do that?” Quentin asks, softly, and when Eliot looks over at him he can see that they both know the answer, but it doesn’t stop Quentin from driving the point home. “Could you turn away someone who’s done you no wrong beyond a little self defense and then asked for your help?”

“If it means keeping you and the coven safe, I’d consider it,” he says darkly, lapsing into silence. There’s a twinge of pain behind his right eye, the start of a stress headache, and he wants–

He wants to drag Quentin up the stairs to his bed and get lost in skin. He wants the oblivion that comes from good sex with a good man, the way skin-to-skin contact satisfied an ache inside him that has existed for so long he almost doesn’t remember a time without it. In the old days, he would have found booze or boys or drugs to fill the void, or some combination of the three. 

“El,” Quentin says softly, and Eliot realizes he’s been staring into space for the past minute. Quentin making worried eyebrows down at him from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, and Eliot sighs, abandoning his books to come over and settle into Quentin’s side. Q allows himself to be scooped up and cuddled, an excellent little spoon until he gets restless.

“I’m not the right person to be leading this charge,” Eliot admits, and it– it feels wrong to say to Q, of all people, because he wants to protect Quentin more than he’s ever want to protect anything, but. 

But Quentin doesn’t really need protecting, not really, not more than any of them do. And Eliot could use some help.

“You’re a good leader,” Quentin points out, generous, he’s always so generous with Eliot.

“I’m a good teacher,” Eliot corrects, because he’s been doing this long enough to know that, at least. “I don’t– We’re talking either hedge civil war, or a vengeful, angry god. That’s a lot more difficult to handle than just safely teaching battle magic in the basement.”

“You’re feeling overwhelmed,” Quentin fills in, and Eliot laughs.

“Fuck, how are you not?”

“I feel overwhelmed by the idea of going to the bodega down the street half the time, Eliot,” Quentin says dryly. “I feel overwhelmed by the concept of taking a _shower_ at least once a week. Let’s just say I’m a little more used to dealing with it.”

“You’re the bravest little toaster,” Eliot murmurs, nuzzling his face into Quentin’s hair, and it should sound like a joke but it really, really doesn’t. “My brave little witch.”

Quentin hums, sinking back into Eliot’s arms. “So talk it through with me,” he says patiently. “I’m officially your therapist for this issue. Explain your anxiety to me.”

“Vengeful god. Hedge civil war,” Eliot points out, again, and yelps when Quentin pinches his thigh. “What, it’s true? It’s a giant bag of awful, either way.”

“There’s a difference between true and productive.”

“How many times has a therapist said that to you?” Eliot wonders, to which Q remains pointedly silent. “Alright, so best case scenario Reynard just... never surfaces again. Has had his fill of hearts and just fucks off and makes people step in puddles or whatever gods do. Worst case scenario he tears his way through all of the hedges in New York just for shits and giggles, because _that’s what_ gods do.”

“Reality is probably somewhere in the middle,” Quentin says reasonably. “So your options are to try and be as prepared as possible in case he does come calling, or to go out and find him. And if you do that–”

“Then Marina brings the fire,” Eliot agrees, because she’d made that pretty fucking clear. “But the catch is that we’re not going to have any chance of beating him if we get caught with our pants down. We don’t have _anything_ in our arsenal right now that could prepare us for this fight, and no information on who or what he is.”

“I think we have a better chance of handling another coven than we do an ambush by Reynard,” Quentin mutters, picking up Eliot’s hand so he can play with his fingers. “You said Margo would say go to war, and I’m not suggesting we start it. But I think, if there’s any sign at all that Reynard is still targeting hedges, we need to throw all our energy into that. We can deal with the other covens if we need to.”

“And what if we _can’t_ win against Reynard,” Eliot wonders, because that’s probably the thing that scares him most of all. “What if I’m just leading my coven into death.”

“Give them the choice,” Quentin says, reasonable. “The cantrip witches, and everyone else who’s not me or Julia or Kady, give them the choice to stay involved or go off the radar.”

“You deserve a choice too, little witch.” Eliot forces himself to say it, because it’s true, it’s true, even if it might break Eliot’s heart open to watch Q walk away from him. 

“El,” Quentin murmurs, twisting around until they’re face to face, almost nose to nose. “I’ve always had a choice. I keep making _this choice._ I’m here because I want to be. Because you gave me a home and I don’t want to be _anywhere else._”

“Even if it’s dangerous?”

“Especially if it is,” Quentin says fiercely, _bravest little toaster._ Eliot swallows and nods, serious, because who was he to not allow Quentin his choice, whatever that choice may be. Q kisses the tip of Eliot’s nose, smiling a little, then twists around again, settling back into Eliot’s arms.

“I never set out to protect anyone,” Eliot says quietly, into the soft hair on the back of Quentin’s neck because it’s safe, it’s quiet here, Quentin’s a perfect little weight in his arms and holding on to him makes Eliot feel capable. “I just wanted to– make amends.”

“Like the 12-step program?” Quentin asks, because of course he knows.

“I tried a group, once, after Margo pulled me up by my balls. Didn’t work for me. Lots and lots of ‘give yourself to God’ involved in the whole thing. Made me want to drink too much.” Quentin snorts, and he probably understands, Eliot thinks. “My dad was an alcoholic, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm. I’ve heard that addiction has a genetic component,” Quentin says softly, fingers tangling with Eliot’s. 

“He was pretty awful to me. All-American redneck town like that, where the men are men and the sheep are nervous, you can imagine how I stuck out. I never exactly had to _come out_ to anyone, not when I was six years old and declaring to the whole world that I was going to marry Shang from Mulan.”

“Because you have _excellent taste,_ Shang is by far the best Disney prince,” Quentin says lightly, and Eliot allows the levity to sink into him, bleed away some of the hurt. “Truly a bisexual icon.”

“Truly not something anyone in a farm town in the midwest appreciated hearing in 1998. And I was skinny and I like theater and I cried too much, and that made him so angry. He’d get drunk and he’d hit me until I stopped crying.”

“Jesus, _Eliot._”

“And the thing is– When I first started to admit to myself that I couldn’t go on like that, I thought maybe it would help if I forgave him? Like forgiving him would be a step towards forgiving myself? But even when I was the most fucked up I ever got, I never hurt anyone but myself. All the hurting of other people I’ve done in my life, I’ve done completely sober. So maybe addiction is genetic but. It’s not an excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” Quentin agrees, twisting around again, and for a heartbeat Eliot wishes he wouldn’t. These conversations are easier when they don’t involve eye contact. Except Quentin is desperately beautiful, in the soft light of the loft, utterly wonderful and oh. Oh, Eliot wishes he could show a picture of this moment, this man, to his 6 year old self. _Hold on kid, it’s worth it._ “Listen, depression has a genetic component, too. Doesn’t mean I deserved to be left by my mom. But it also doesn’t mean I can’t be better for myself, or for my kids.”

_For my kids._ Oh, that was a thought. He can see it in his mind’s eye, Q with an arm full of kids, the image comes so easily. The fact that in this wistful imagining, the kids all have curly black hair is probably extremely telling.

“Is that something you want?” Eliot asks, curiously. Years ago, the idea of would have been enough to send him running for the door but, with Q... It doesn’t make him want to run.

Quentin, seeming to realize what he just said, what that implies when you say it to the person you’re dating, goes wide eyed. “I mean. Yes? I guess? At some distant point in the future, because fuck, I can’t even like, take care of myself half the time. But it’s something I’ve always– thought I’d have, you know? I could live without it, though, you know I mean. I don’t think anyone should have kids unless they’re emphatically onboard with the idea, you can’t half-ass raising a child. So like, I don’t, I don’t think I’d need it to be happy–”

“Q,” Eliot says softly, because Quentin’s rambling himself in a circle and looking more panicked by the second. “Calm down, little one.”

Quentin’s jaw clicks shut, before he tips forward to bury his face in Eliot’s neck. “We can’t have this conversation and then have you call me the thing you say when you want me to call you ‘Daddy’, El. That’s just too much for me to handle.”

Eliot buries his laughter in Quentin’s hair, and feels– light. He feels known. The impending doom of whichever catastrophe is going to hit them first still weighs on him, but the weight feels easier to handle with Q in his arms. 

“I’m going to do whatever I have to do to protect you,” Eliot murmurs, and when Quentin shifts again Eliot lets him, meets his big brown eyes. “I want you to have a chance at that future you’re stuttering about.”

“Oh shut up,” Quentin grumbles, scrunching his face up adorably, and then he goes serious. “I know you’ll keep me safe. I hope you know I’ll do the same for you.”

“I do,” Eliot promises, because he does. Just in the past couple weeks he’s seen Quentin throw shields into existence, and refuse to be left behind. No one besides Margo has ever been so determined to keep Eliot alive. 

“You should kiss me now,” Q murmurs, soft and low, and fuck if it doesn’t send a zing of heat through Eliot’s body, Q all relaxed in his arms giving him bedroom eyes, asking to be kissed.

“Hmm, ask nicely,” he prompts, and watches Q’s eyes go a little bit darker, and a little bit more open. 

“Please, _please_ kiss me?”

Well, what’s Eliot supposed to do with that, besides kiss his soft, sweet mouth. Quentin makes a sound somewhere between a hum and moan and _yields,_ opens up for Eliot, welcomes him. And oh, his lovely mouth is so warm and wet inside, its Eliot’s absolute favorite thing. He could spend hours losing himself to Q’s mouth, fucking it with his tongue and his fingers and his cock. Oh, he _wants_ to.

Q arches a little when he breaks away to breathe, pushing towards Eliot with his shoulders and chest like being separated from him is physically painful. “T-tell– please, please tell me,” he stutters, and Eliot knows what he wants even though he can’t get the words out.

“Shhh,” he shushes, and slides two of his fingers gently into Q’s mouth so he doesn’t have to talk. Something like relief passes over his little witch’s face, and Eliot’s heart _aches_ it’s so full. Quentin’s tongue is like hot velvet under the pads of his fingers. He suckles weakly, staring at Eliot with pleading eyes. “It’s okay, little one. You’re _mine._”

Eliot can feel his full body shiver, where they’re pressed together curled up and twisted on the couch. Q’s tongue trails up against his fingers, tracing the seam between them, and Jesus, _fucking_ saints alive, this boy. Fascinated, he pushes his fingers further into Q’s mouth, until the metal of the ring on his middle finger is brushing Q’s lips. 

“Mine to take care of,” Eliot murmurs, watching enraptured as Quentin’s eyes fall shut for a moment. “_Mine_, little one, you’re all mine. I’ve been wanting to take you to bed since we got home.”

A soft hum, and Eliot pulls his fingers free immediately so Q can speak. “Take me,” he begs, fist coming up to curl softly against the collar of Eliot’s shirt, and _oh, little witch._

Sometimes when they fall into bed together they stumble up the stairs to the loft bedroom, giggling and handsy and playful. Other times it’s a rush, stripping along the way so when Eliot wakes the next morning he’s treated to a trail of shirts and belts and shoes leading down the half-open staircase to the rest of his loft. Tonight is neither of those, not when Eliot feels like putting any space between them at all is going to cost him all his composure. It’s a slow process, where Eliot can’t help but pin Q to the wall halfway up the stairs and kiss, and kiss, and _kiss_ until he feels dizzy with it. 

When he pulls away, Quentin _whimpers_, then flushes, embarrassed by his own neediness. “Baby,” Eliot moans, touching Quentin’s kiss red mouth helpless. “Oh, little one, I love how eager you are for me.”

“Yours,” Quentin pants, fingers fisting into Eliot’s shirt and pushing up on his toes and _kissing_, begging with his hot little mouth. 

They drag their way to the bed, and Eliot falls to sit on the side, looking up at Quentin, nearly invisible in the darkness. And that, Eliot can’t abide, not when Quentin deserves to be _looked at_, deserves to be seen. Eliot calls for telekinesis with a simple flick of his fingers, hitting the switch on the lamps on both sides of the room, illuminating Quentin’s tender smile in a soft golden glow.

“I love that,” Q breathes, planting one knee on the bed next to Eliot’s thigh and swinging the other leg up so he’s straddling Eliot’s lap, neatly seated there. “The way things just move the way you want them to...”

There’s the sparkle of an idea, there, and Eliot reaches up to take Quentin’s wrists in his hands. “I could hold you with it, some time, if you wanted. I’d have to be careful, it can be... force is hard to gauge, with it. Not like with hands.”

“If you want to,” Quentin says, and Eliot can hear both eagerness and sincerity in his tone. “Only if you want to.”

“You’re so good to me,” Eliot breathes, wondering, because how. How did he get a partner like this, so good and true and _his?_

Quentin ducks his head, eyes flitting around. “So are you,” he mutters, and Eliot grins, touches his cheek, his pretty red mouth. 

He yields when Eliot pulls, settles into Eliot’s lap, into his arms, for a long, slow, blinding kiss. Jesus, Eliot doesn’t remember ever loving kissing this much, before Q. But had he ever been with someone who liked being kissed as much as Q does? And oh, Quentin does like it, is getting himself all worked up about it, his perfect little frame rocking in Eliot’s arms because he’s so fucking hot for it he can’t not want to grind down against Eliot’s dick in his pants.

“I need to be _in you_, little witch,” Eliot moans, and feels the whole of Quentin’s compact body shudder in his arms. “Just like this, yeah? I want you to ride me, just like this.”

“Yes, _please_,” Q pants, and fuck, they have so many clothes on, why aren’t they naked yet. Sometimes stripping Q is fun but right now Eliot just wants skin. 

They shed their clothing on their own, and come back together in the center of the big bed. Q in his lap is a revelation, all soft skin and rough hair and achy needy boy. He’s clingy and hungry, can’t seem to stop kissing Eliot but can’t stay focused enough to do it either. Eliot calls lube over to them from the bedside with magic and it makes Quentin groan, grind his hard cock helplessly against Eliot’s stomach. 

“Breathe,” Eliot reminds him, as he carefully fits one finger inside, and Quentin’s breath catches, and then deliberately releases, a steady rhythm as he bears down on Eliot’s finger. “My good boy, that’s right. You’re doing so good.”

Up on his knees, Quentin’s taller than Eliot, enough that Eliot has to stretch up to kiss him and it’s good. The change in angle is exciting, like he has to work for it, and oh wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he do anything for this? One finger stretches into two, and Quentin moans against his mouth, clings to his shoulders like he’s going to float away if he doesn’t have something to hold on to. Two turns into three, and Eliot’s being careful, he’s always careful. He knows he’s a lot to take and even if Q’s not exactly _new to this_, he needs to take that care.

“Please, please, _please_,” Quentin begs, as Eliot’s three fingers in deep, teasing the rim with his thumb. “Please get inside me oh my god, _please._”

Eliot’s powerless to deny him, when he’s aching himself, thumming with his own need. Q’s wet and hot as fire around Eliot’s cock as he starts to slide down, and in this position it would be difficult for Eliot to _thrust up hard_, but he wants to, oh he wants to. Holds it back and cups one gentle hand around Q’s throat and watches the furrow of concentration on his brow as he breathes through it and _takes it._

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Eliot tells him, and it sounds awed because he _is._ “You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, Quentin.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Q laughs, embarrassed, tipping forward until he can bury his face against Eliot’s neck, but that’s fine. It just means Eliot gets to hold him, wrap him up in his arms, encourage him to find a little movement, just a slow roll of his hips. 

It’s life-changingly, mind bendingly wonderful, the slow rhythm Quentin sets. Slow fire, all of Eliot’s nerves alight because he can’t get enough friction to really chase an orgasm like this, so it just builds. Like a cascade, heat in his belly and between his legs, oh, _but it feels so good_ and it’s clearly really working for Q too. They kiss until they lose the coordination for it, and then they’re left panting into each other’s mouths. 

One of Q’s hands comes up to touch his cheek, his chin, and Eliot leans into it. “El,” Quentin whimpers, like a prayer, and does something with his hips that makes his own eyes flicker shut.

Eliot’s left to curl one of his hands around Quentin’s neck, sift through the soft strands of his long lovely hair, while he reaches down with the other. Q’s cock is wet against his fingers, leaky when he touches the head, plays with it a little. Quentin whines and bites at Eliot’s lip, and Eliot can’t help but laugh, does it again then rubs the tip of his index finger against the slit until more wet slides out. 

“You’re so–” he starts, and can’t even finish, because he doesn’t even know, Quentin is so beautiful and generous and brittle and _his._ “You’re _mine._”

Quentin sobs, riding a little harder, and Eliot gives in, fits his hand over the shaft of Quentin’s cock. A handful more moments of Quentin riding back onto Eliot’s cock and up into his hand, and then he’s swearing “_Fuck, Eliot,_” and coming with a punched out breath, shuddering apart in Eliots arms. 

And because he’s a wonderful, sweet, generous lover he lets Eliot tip him backwards to sprawl on the big bed and really _fuck,_ sensitivity be damned. After the slow roil of low heat, it feels so incredibly good to let go, to ride on Q’s little encouraging noises and fuck hard into him. Pleasure pulls tight low in his balls and Eliot let’s it crest, cradled safe between Quentin’s open thighs. 

It’s everything Eliot can do not to fall limp and useless after that, crushing Q under his body weight. Instead, he does manage to roll over, flop onto his back. There’s a good, solid thirty seconds where all he can feel is the tingling in his fingertips, and the thrum of his heartbeat in his nipples and balls and the head of his cock.

_Fuck._

Then Q starts to giggle.

It’s a bright, infectious sound, and Eliot catches it, a low chuckle starting in his ribs that he can’t hold on to. By the time Q rolls over onto his side, head propped on his hand on Eliot’s chest, Eliot’s laughing with all his heart. “I think I just experienced another plane of existence when I came,” Quentin says, lightly, and Eliot feels a tug of deep satisfaction somewhere primal and probably embarrassing inside him. 

“This was one for the books,” he agrees, which earns him another small bout of giggles. They had landed laying sideways across the bed and they’re both desperately in need of a shower, but oh, it’s so nice having Q close, in this moment. He presses his palm against the span of Q’s back and feels him breathe. There’s nothing he wants more at this moment than to just roll onto his side and cuddle, kiss Q’s soft mouth until they’re both sleepy with it. 

So that’s what he does. Why the fuck not?

__

It would fucking figure, given the state of karma and the universe, that when the report of another slaughter coven comes in, it’s in fucking Indiana.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of Reynard unfolds further, while Eliot and Quentin do some traveling.

“It would be fucking Indiana.”

“What’s in Indiana?” Kady asks, clearly confused, from where she’s sitting sprawled in the chair in the safehouse library, all unlaced boots in an untidy sprawl. Eliot reluctantly does have to give her points for aesthetic, because ‘battle butch’ is a pretty good look for her. 

“Literally nothing at all,” he sighs, earning himself a pointed look from Quentin who’s sitting cross-legged on the table to Eliot’s left. 

“Just all of your personal baggage,” Quentin mutters, low enough under his breath that Kady and Julia won’t be able to hear him from where they’re sitting on the couch. Which, Eliot doesn’t appreciate being read like that, but Quentin’s not exactly _wrong._

“Well, what _isn’t_ in Indiana is any kind of classical Magicians institutions. Which means, it’s pretty much a breeding ground for hedges,” Julia muses. Laptop open on her knees, she’s scrolling through twitter, filtering out gossip from actual facts about the 5 people found dead in a house in Arcola, hearts ripped out. 

“Mmmhm, yep. Breeding ground for hedges and addiction and homophobia. Yay middle America.”

“We should go check it out,” Quentin sighs, sitting back on his hands. The look he gives Eliot is both knowing and resigned. “Or some of us should, anyway.”

“Okay, but there’s the small problem that you need to be familiar with a place to open a portal there,” Kady points out, which would be a reasonable concern if Eliot wasn’t– himself.

“I can portal us there. Or close enough, anyway.”

“You don’t have to go,” Quentin says, softly, kindly, and Eliot tries not to be irritated at him. Fuck, wasn’t the whole point of allowing someone to know you, know the dark parts of yourself, just the desperate hope that they would be kind to you anyway? It shouldn’t scrape against Eliot’s skin like this, shouldn’t feel like he’s being told he’s _not enough._ Not when all Quentin really knows of his childhood stems from the conversation they’d had the other night, and Eliot’s general resentment of the concept of farming. 

Christ, at some point Eliot’s going to have to unpack this baggage, but that point can’t be now.

“I’ll be fine,” he says curtly, waving away Quentin’s concern. “The person who probably shouldn’t go is Kady. I trust that amulet enough to wander out away from the wards for short bursts, but returning to the literal scene of the crime feels stupid in the extreme.”

“Yeah, except I’m the one who knows what the ritual we were doing entails. You need my eyes on the ground.”

“Well,” Julia cuts in, small smile quirking on her lips. “Maybe we can get your eyes without having to bring the rest of you.”

Two hours later, and Julia has one half of a ‘best bitches’ necklace hung around her neck, waiting next to Q and Essie while Eliot works out the circumstances for the portal spell to open his office door into an alleyway in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

“Best bitches, huh?” Quentin murmurs, his tone light and teasing, and Eliot shoots a look over at them in time to see Julia kick him in the shin. “Ow!”

“You’re a nosy little fuck,” Julia hisses, and Quentin grins, relentless.

“I’m just sayin’. You’re spending a lot of time–”

“How’s that portal going, Eliot?” Julia cuts him off, loudly and pointedly.

“Would go faster without commentary from the fucking audience,” he mutters, trying to hold spacial differential equations in his brain. “Is Venus in retrograde right now?”

“Saturn,” Julia corrects.

“Fuck, I hate portal theory.”

“It’s literally your speciality,” Essie quips, eyeing him.

“No, it’s M’s, not mine. I just make shit fly around. Okay, here we go. If I dump us in Indianapolis, I’m sorry and I will pay for the bus.”

They don’t end up in Indianapolis, they come out exactly where Eliot meant to. Which just so happens to be in–

“The alley outside a gay bar?” Julia asks, and Eliot huffs, dusting off his trousers.

“Look, it’s not like I would have come to Fort Wayne for the _avante garde art scene_ which does not exist here. Yes, it’s a gay bar. Now someone call a fucking Uber.”

Fuck, Eliot just wants to get out of this state. 

He’s on edge, enough that he nearly jumps out of his skin when Quentin fingers brush against his. Q pulls back immediately, looking uncertain and unhappy. “I– sorry.”

“No,” Eliot says firmly, and takes Quentin’s hand in his. Fuck this state, and especially fuck anyone who might think they could give him shit. Eliot’s a goddamn Magician, a powerful one, he’s not going to be scared of holding his boyfriend’s hand in broad daylight.

“Tell me about this place, later?” Quentin asks, softly, and Eliot swallows. Nods. 

“It’s not an interesting story.”

“It’s you. I’m interested,” Q says simply. 

Taking an Uber to a crime scene is a new experience, but hey! That’s what life is supposed to be about, right, new experiences? They’d selected a coffee shop a couple of streets away from the actual murder location as their drop-off spot, because Eliot’s not an _idiot_ and neither are his witches. That doesn’t mean it’s going to be any easier to get past the police tape, however, without a man on the inside this time. 

“Do you have your driver’s license?” Julia asks, as they loiter awkwardly on the corner near the scene. Luckily, there’s enough people from the neighborhood rubbernecking at the building that they don’t really stand out.

“Of course,” Eliot says dismissively, reaching into his wallet to pull it out. 

“No offense, Q, but you’re not exactly dressed like a detective,” Julia says, taking Eliot’s ID and her own. She clicks her fingers and then swipes them over the licenses, masking them to look like police IDs. It wouldn’t hold up to close inspection, but it should be good enough that they won’t be looked at too closely to begin with. 

“And Eliot is?” Quentin protests, tugging self consciously on the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“Cops are allowed to have fashion sense,” Eliot says dismissively, straightening his burgundy blazer. 

“My girlfriend wears a leather jacket to work,” Essie points out, and Q rolls his eyes. 

“We know she’s hot, we met her, you can stop reminding us.”

“Aww, don’t be jealous,” Essie teases, jamming her elbow gently into Q’s ribs. Eliot watches them bicker fondly, the swell of affection of _my family, I built this, I made this with my own two hands_ catching in his ribs. 

“Play nice, kiddies,” he says lightly, accepting his ID back from Julia. “We got Kady on the line?”

“Yep,” Julia verifies, listening to a voice only she can hear.

“Alright, time to lie our way into a crime scene.”

“You’re doing the talking,” Julia nudges, as the two of them step off the curb and over towards the taped off house. “Time to prove charisma’s not a dump stat.”

“Oh my god, you and Quentin _are_ the same breed of nerd.”

“You’re the one sleeping with him,” she teases and Eliot smiles to himself.

“Listen, porking a dungeon master is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Coming up on the police line saves him from whatever pithy comment she might have in response to that. Years and years of experience doing illegal shit has taught Eliot that the best way to get into a place you’re not supposed to be is believing utterly that you’re supposed to be there and not giving anyone a chance to question it. So he flashes his faked ID with a lazy kind of afterthought and strolls pass the beat cop on duty before anyone has a chance to say anything about it. No one does. 

“Kady’s impressed,” Julia whispers, and then snorts. “Apparently I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

“You’re bad at this,” Eliot mutters under his breath, walking purposefully up the drive to the house, Julia following in his wake. 

There’s no one actively standing around inside, which is a stroke of luck. He’d had no recourse for what they were going to do if they ran into the actual detectives while they were here. The bodies have been removed, which makes Eliot think everyone important has already come and gone, but most of the scene is intact.

Intact, and familiarly horrible. The house is a single story ranch-style building, and the rug in the living room had been rolled up to make space for the ritual. Everything, the walls, ceilings, furniture, kitschy americana tchotchkes, absolutely everything is sprayed with blood. There’s a table set up over the rolled up rug, and Eliot carefully picks is way over to it. 

The statues are familiar, the way they’re leaking blood from the eyes and nose and mouth isn’t exactly something Eliot’s going to forget anytime soon. 

“OLU again,” Eliot points out to Julia, nodding towards the altar. “So it’s not just any goddess worship. It’s specifically her.”

“Looks that way,” Julia agrees. “Kady wants to know if there’s a ritual bowl.”

A quick scan around the room doesn’t turn up anything. “Doesn’t seem to be, but it’s been hours since this story broke in the news. Probably anything of interest has been taken to a police station.”

“I’m going to go talk to the guy outside, see if he can fill me in on anything.”

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, tucking up the legs of his pants so he can squat down, try to find traces of a sigil on the ground under all the blood. “If he gets suspicious just bail, I’ll meet you back with the kiddies.”

There’s definitely something written on the ground, just visible through the blood drying stickily on the floor. It’s not exactly the same, but that’s not surprising. From what Kady has told them, her coven had basically invented their own summoning sigil. This one has similar elements, but it looks like it’s smaller in scale. Less like opening a door and more like turning on a beacon. Beyond the sigil on the ground and the alter, there really isn’t much else to find in the house. Still, he snaps a picture of both of those before heading out to extract Julia from the beat cop she’s talking to.

“I wonder if Kady’s coven released Reynard from somewhere, and that’s why he’s surfaced now.” Eliot muses, as they step away from the crime scene. “Now he’s just popping up anywhere anyone’s trying to contact Our Lady Underground.”

“It’s possible,” she agrees. “He’s still wearing Richard’s face, from the sounds of it. At least Kady thinks so.”

“Well, that’s just. Horrible.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Essie and Quentin are sitting on the sidewalk playing cards when Eliot and Julia walk up. “Well?” Essie asks, shoving her hand of cards back at Quentin with a look of disgust. Eliot bites back a smile, because this whole situation is serious and horrible, he’s not allowed to be charmed by his boyfriend right now.

“Definitely Reynard. Definitely connected to Our Lady Underground. Definitely hunting hedges. No signs of stopping,” he summarizes. “It’s been what two, two and a half weeks since the last attack? I can’t imagine he’s going to de-escalate.” 

“Do you think Marina’s going to buy in now?” Quentin wonders, clambering awkwardly to his feet. “Her whole thing was that she didn’t think he’d move on any more hedges.”

“I’m sure she still thinks this doesn’t count as a real safehouse, whatever that means. He’ll have to go after someone who didn’t summon OLU to get her involved,” Julia muses. 

“Maybe not even then,” Eliot sighs. “It’s hard to tell with Marina. Come on, I need to get back to New York to talk to M.”

__

Margo’s convinced the answer to the puzzle lies in Greece. 

After a two hour long debrief and brainstorm, Eliot’s forced to agree with her. There’s not a lot left they can find in just translated texts and hedge witch mythology about Our Lady Underground. It’s time to do some actual archaeological spelunking. 

“I could use some help, El,” Margo admits, and while he’s up late, she’s up early, before sunrise in Greece. “I’m heading to some ruins at Delos near Mykonos, there’s supposed to be some connection to Persephone there. If I give you the spell for the portal, can you come give me a hand digging through a _lot_ of historical artifacts?”

“Studying. Yay.” Eliot intones, dropping his head back against the top of his desk chair. He can already feel the phantom echoes of a headache starting behind his right eye.

“Oh, shut up, it’ll be more Tomb Raider than Da Vinci Code, I promise.”

Eliot snorts. “Well, you know I always jump at the opportunity to see my Bambi.”

“You should bring your boy,” Margo says in a voice just casual enough to be dangerous.

“Oh?”

“Well, I’m going to have to meet him eventually. You’re contractually obligated to allow me to vet all boys you sleep with more than once. Plus, he’s brainy, he can help,” Margo muses.

“I don’t remember that contract.”

“Of course you don’t, it exists in the first place because I caught you doing lines of coke off someone’s dick. Bring the nerd.”

Fuck, he misses her. Like there was any chance he wasn’t going to _jump_ at the chance to see her again. “I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he’ll say yes, but I’m not going to _kidnap_ him if he doesn’t want to go.”

“If he doesn’t want to, it’s a strike against him,” Margo warns, giving Eliot the stink eye through the mirror.

It’s quiet in the safe house by the time they say their goodbyes, most people gone for the day. He locks up his office and makes the rounds, finding the only people left in the building in the living room. Julia’s half-laying there curled up, a sleeping Kady’s head on her stomach. 

“Hey,” Eliot says softly, and Julia gives him a sleepy smile. 

“Hey. I sent Q home an hour ago. He’s at our apartment.”

Eliot nods in acknowledgement, taking in the two girls. “How’s she doing?”

“Seeing that was harder than she expected, I think. I’m going to stay with her, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Eliot waves his hands, dismissively. Kady’s been sleeping in the safehouse for weeks at this point, having Julia here as well isn’t going to make that a more _threatening_ proposition somehow. “The wards are locked down tighter at night, so only people from our coven can come in and out, but they might pop in. You can set up a lock spell on this door if you want.”

“I’ll do that,” she agrees, then nods pointedly towards the keys on the table. “You should go back to Brooklyn, so Q’s not alone tonight.”

“Ugh, _Brooklyn_,” Eliot complains, but calls the keys over to himself with a wink and tug of telekinesis. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, and Eliot leaves them alone.

The apartment is dark when Eliot lets himself in, and he’s not nearly familiar enough with it to navigate well without light. After a couple minutes of stumbling around in the dark, he finds a lamp he can flick on, which does make it significantly easier to find his way over to Q’s room. The door opens with a soft creak, light spilling in from the main apartment to reveal Quentin, asleep sprawled pell-mell on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans.

Eliot smiles fondly, stepping over to crouch next to the bed near him, reach out and stroke his fingers through the loose sprawl of Quentin’s soft hair. “It’s me,” he murmurs, softly, as Quentin groggily comes awake. 

“El?”

“Mmmhm. Julia gave me her keys. She’s staying with Kady tonight.”

“Best bitches,” Quentin murmurs, then grinds his faces sleepily into the bed. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I gathered,” Eliot chuckles, amused, glancing down towards Q’s jeans. At least he’d managed to get his shoes off. “Did you eat anything?”

“No,” Quentin sighs, rolling his head to blink sleepily at Eliot. “I haven’t been here in like a week, I definitely don’t have any food in the house.”

“Ah, little one, that’s what postmates is for,” Eliot says sagely, standing up and holding his hand out. “Come on. Nothing like some good old fashioned chinese delivery at 11pm.”

They end up curled up on the couch, Quentin half-asleep again in Eliot’s arms, while they wait for the food to arrive. Too wired to think of sleep himself, Eliot relaxes into the couch, settling with the weight of Quentin’s body against him. It’s precious in the truest sense of the word, really, Quentin’s ease, the trust that it takes to just sleep on someone. Soft moments like this are special, and Eliot wants to absorb every second of it.

He does make Quentin go answer the door though, since it is his place. Kind of.

They pass containers of noodles and chicken and dumplings back and forth in a sleepy kind of contentment, something brainless and easy playing on the TV to fill the silence. 

“Hey, El,” Quentin murmurs, once their take-out containers are abandoned on the table, chopsticks sticking out of them like incense. Eliot hums softly in acknowledgement, and Q tips his face up, planting his chin on Eliot’s chest so he can see his face. “Tell me about the bar?”

“It’s just a bar, little one,” Eliot sighes, rubbing his fingers through the soft hair at the base of Q’s skull. His hair is tied up in a little bun, but wisps of it always escape at the back, much to Eliot’s personal delight. He’s really hopelessly fond of Q, even– maybe especially– the parts of him that are a little bit of a mess.

“It’s more than that,” Quentin protests. “If it’s the only place in the whole town you _know–_”

“I’m serious, you’re reading more into it than there is,” Eliot protests. “It’s just a bar I used to go to. It’s not exactly over-flowing with _happy memories,_ but there’s nothing bad that happened there either.”

A couple beats and then Quentin mutters, “Okay.” Like that’s that, like he’s going to let Eliot get away with it. With telling just part of the truth. Like Eliot doesn’t know he deserves better than that. He swallows, and tries to figure out where to start.

“I– Remember how I told you I never exactly had to come out?” Quentin hums in agreement. “Well. Listen, everyone’s high school years are traumatic, I get that, but mine literally developed a body count. I discovered magic by dragging a school bus over the boy who made me want to kill myself, and it didn’t make anything better. My father still called me a fag to my face and locked me out of the house in the middle of the winter. School was still a literal nightmare. The only solace I had was– my best friend, Tyler.”

“You were in love with him,” Quentin fills in, and Eliot can’t help but reach out, brush his fingers against Q’s cheek. Soft, sweet Q, who’s spent most of his life in love with one best friend or another.

“No, baby, I was just trying to survive. I didn’t have the bandwidth to be in love with anyone. But Tyler was kind and he played in marching band and was obsessed with Harry Potter and when the rest of the boys in our class turned on him– I did too. Like if I called him all the shit people called me and kicked him too, then maybe they’d lay off me.”

“Oh, El.”

“They didn’t. And then I really was alone. But by the time I was 17, I had a car and a fake ID, and I could drive up to Fort Wayne and– Start myself on the path that would leave me unconscious in an alley in Harlem ten years later.”

“You found a way to survive,” Quentin concludes, and fuck, he’s always been like this, always fixating on the wrong part of the story.

“I– After literal murder and horrible betryal, yeah, I–”

“No, Eliot,” Quentin says, determined little crease in his brow. “Look, okay. Being queer was never one of things about myself that fucked me up. My mom moved in with a woman named Molly when I was 7, and there were tons of things about that which sucked. Not the least of which being that Molly really didn’t like kids, and my mom was just fine with that. But it did mean that I grew up with queerness just being a fact of life, and I was lucky in that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get what it’s like to struggle to find a way to keep going.”

“You picked books,” Eliot points out, slightly sarcastic but mostly fond. “I picked dick and narcotics. One of us definitely made the better choice.”

“Books weren’t exactly super effective for me,” Quentin points out, lightly. “Seeing as I’ve been institutionalized four times. But I survived, and so did you. And okay, maybe things aren’t exactly great right now, with the whole heart-eating-god thing, but. I’ve gone five years without a suicide attempt. You’ve been sober for four. We survived, and we found each other. So– Destiny maybe be bullshit, and all that, but if that bar in Fort Wayne let you get to me... I can’t see it as a bad thing.”

“You’re an incredible person,” Eliot whispers, feeling awed, down to his bones, awed by Quentin’s bravery, his goodness. “It’s dumb but you make me feel like I can be too.”

“It’s not dumb,” Quentin protests, stubborn, brows furrowed and eyes intense. 

I love you so much, Eliot thinks, and bites his lip, holding the words in. Now wasn’t the time, but– soon. Instead, he leans in and takes a gentle kiss. The skin of Quentin’s cheeks is soft and warm in his palms, stubble just a little rough against his thumbs. Q leans into him, generous, and Eliot makes himself draw back.

“Well, anyway. Now you know.”

“Now I know,” Quentin agrees, catching Eliot’s hand in his. “I’m still exactly where I want to be.”

“Yeah?” Eliot teases, grin starting on his face. “That mean you don’t want to come to Greece with me and meet Margo?”

“Oh! Well, I mean, yeah, I definitely want to do that, but– Oh, god, I’m going to have to meet _Margo_.” Quentin looks vaguely terrified of this prospect, and Eliot laughs.

“Don’t worry baby, she only bites if you ask very, very nicely.”

_

Eliot doesn’t sleep much, before they leave for Greece. Quentin’s bed in Julia’s apartment is comfortable enough, and honestly Eliot thinks he could probably sleep on a pallet in the woods if he had Quentin to curl around, the world’s wiggliest little spoon. But every time he closes his eyes, he sees the gore and the carnage from Reynard’s attacks. Blood paints the inside of his brain, bodies ripped open and broken across the floor.

It makes it hard to sleep.

They swing by Eliot’s loft on the way into work the next morning so he can throw together a travel bag. A quick check in at the safehouse, so Eliot can pick up some books and print out the portal spell Margo sent him, and then they’re ready to go. It feels wrong, leaving the safe house unprotected, so it’s a last minute thought which has him reaching out to Harriet. She’d been eager to help, after all, and some reinforcements looking after his witches while he’s away doesn’t sound like a bad idea. She agrees easily enough, and that does at least make him feel a little better.

All told, it’s 9am by the time they step through the portal in New York, out into the mid-afternoon sun on the island of Mykonos. There’s a million things to see at once, a million things to process as they step through the portal. The air is warm, wonderfully tropical and inviting against the chill of New York, and the island is beautiful. He gets the briefest impression of sunlit waters and white buildings, before his eyes land on Margo, and then it’s like he can see nothing else.

_Margo_, in a linen sundress and a big floppy hat, make-up done to perfection and the biggest smile on her face. That big, unironic smile she hates, which shows her teeth and crinkles her eyes, makes her complain about premature wrinkles. _Margo_, in all her 5’3” glory, skin dark with the sunlight and hair in perfect waves. _Margo._

“Bambi,” he breathes, and then they’re rushing towards each other, caught up in a hug that is so overdue he aches with it. Her arms go up around his neck, hands catching at the back of his head, and he holds her close, her hair silky under his hands. He definitely knocks her hat off, and he definitely doesn’t care. “Bambi, I _missed you._”

“Whose fault is that, you twat,” she laughs into his chest, and her voice sounds thick with emotion. “The world doesn't have to be ending for you to visit me, you know.”

“I know,” Eliot says, and he knows he sounds helplessly soft, hopelessly fond as he pulls back to cup her cheeks in his hand. She smiles up at him in that way she has, like she sees all of the parts of him that are broken and loves him anyway. No one besides Quentin has ever looked at him like that. 

Quentin, who’s hovering nervously behind Eliot, Margo’s lost hat held in his hands. “Hi,” he rushes to say as they part, turning to look at him. “Um, I’m Quentin? Quentin Coldwater. You dropped your hat– or, it fell off. So. Here?”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Margo teases, reaching out to take her sunhat back from him. “He’s not _that_ cute, El.”

Which was a blatant lie, Quentin is the cutest thing Eliot’s ever seen. He’s so cute Eliot’s going to be overwhelmingly useless if he doesn’t stop looking nervous and stuttering his way through this conversation, so obviously desperate to make a good impression on the only person Eliot calls family. 

“Claws in, Kitten,” Eliot warns, rolling his eyes at Q and looping an arm around his neck. Q leans into him, a warm press along his side, so familiar in its _rightness._ “He’s here to help, so try not to be too mean to him.”

“Hmm,” Margo hums, giving Quentin a very clear once over. “Remains to be seen how helpful he’ll be. But it’s good you came. I don’t think I could stand to share Eliot with someone I haven’t met for much longer.”

“I’ll be helpful,” Quentin promises, turning to dig into his messenger bag. “I brought basically every book I could find on greek mythology. I had to do a trans-dimensional pocket spell on my bag to get everything in there. Which is like– Great, right, because now I basically have a Bag of Holding.”

“Oh, Eliot,” Margo simpers, delighted. “He’s such a nerd. Your type.”

“Um– Yeah, I guess? I mean. If you mean the D&D reference, then well, you _understood the reference_, so–”

“She says my type because she’s _also a nerd,_” Eliot cuts off the nervous chatter before it can build up steam. “She’s been trying to get me to read the Game of Thrones books for years.”

“Well, they’re good? They’re better than the show anyway, or at least the second half of it.”

“Correct opinions, didn’t bother to mansplain the actual title of the series to you, which you know _I_ would do,” Margo lists off, arms crossing over her chest with a little smile on her face. “Okay, I’m starting to get part of the appeal.” Quentin flushes, pleased, turning to hide his face in Eliot’s chest a little. Margo raises a knowing eyebrow at Eliot, an expression which says she’s getting another part of the appeal, too.

Whatever, it’s not like Eliot’s ever been _subtle_ about what he likes in men.

Margo leads them through the small village, up a winding pathway towards a Villa set high up on the cliffside. The view is breathtaking, and Eliot pauses to stand on the terrace, looking out over the turquoise water. The island bustles with activity, fishing boats and tourists dot the beaches and docks, everything so picturesque it feels unreal.

“How do you get views like this,” Eliot asks, a little awed, “while I spend my days staring at New York City concrete. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s your New York City concrete safehouse that finances my views,” Margo points out, hopping up onto the wall and swinging her feet lazily. “Because my views build up your safehouse. It’s a good system. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get out more, though.”

Eliot doesn’t bother to say what they both know, that routine and the mundanity of his life is a big part of what helps keep him sober. How much harder it would be, if he were jet-setting, not to fall back into old habits. Besides: “Someone’s gotta teach,” he points out, feels Quentin’s arms slip around his waist, Q’s chin hook over his shoulder. “There's no safehouse without a teacher, Bambi.”

“And you’re good at it,” Quentin says softly, because he knows all the unspoken truths, too, really. 

“And I’m good at it,” Eliot agrees, staring out into the water.

The villa is lovely, too, small but extremely comfortable, with a big veranda full of outdoor furniture and two comfortable bedrooms. Everything is sundrenched and warm, warm enough that Eliot loses his vest and tie almost immediately, unbuttoning the top handful of buttons on his shirt and rolling up his sleeves. Margo and Q set up camp in the little kitchen of the villa to pour over maps, which Margo claims is the coolest spot. Eliot feels like he could use the sun, though, if he’s being honest, so he takes one of Quentin’s texts in need of translation and heads out onto the veranda with a warning look at Margo. _Play nice with what’s mine,_ it says, and her wide-eyed expression is not exactly reassuring, but he trusts her not to needle Q more than he can handle.

The problem with sun, and warmth, and lack of sleep was that they combined into making studying very difficult. Studying, research, whatever you want to call it, had never exactly been a strong-suit of Eliot’s, who thrived with magic because he learned by doing. It made it incredibly hard to actually take in anything he was reading. The temptation to just nap in the sunlight like a cat was tempered only by the knowledge that he really needed to stay awake until it was a reasonable hour to sleep in Greece, so he’d be functional for their archeological trip tomorrow.

Still, he’s half-dozing off when Quentin wanders out to find him, a few hours later. He settles on the arm of the veranda chair as Eliot shakes off the last dredges of drowsiness, smiling up at him.

“How’s it going with Bambi?”

“She’s got a plan, and I’m not getting in her way,” Quentin says sagely, then his eyes soften. “I don’t know, she scares me more now, I think? But...”

“But you’re kind of into that,” Eliot fills in, and at Quentin’s blush, laughs. “She’ll eat you alive, but only if you ask first.” 

“She’s really smart. Like– scary smart. And very protective of you. I can see why you love her.”

“She’s my girl,” Eliot agrees, because the whole complicated web of Eliot-and-Margo can just be boiled down to that. _She is mine, and I am hers,_ and he’s so glad Q seems to get that. It’s reassuring that Quentin, who treats being _Eliot’s_ like something rare and special, can understand and appreciate Margo in that way. Even if they find out nothing about Reynard, this trip will have been worth it for that.

Or maybe it wouldn’t be, maybe his prospective is too narrow. It’s hard to think, with the lingering threads of drowsiness clinging to his brain. He stifles a yawn, stretching a little and flipping his book closed to smile up at Q. 

“You should get some sleep,” Quentin says softly. His fingers reach up to play with Eliot’s curls, sweet and gentle against Eliot’s scalp, it feels _amazing,_ oh. He could fall asleep like this, Q playing with his hair. But–

“I need to push through it or jet lag is going to kick my ass. It’s my own fault for not sleeping before we left. Plus, I need to translate this before we head to Delos tomorrow.” Eliot’s brain, which is very convinced that it’s 11am and he’s got most of a day to get through before he’s allowed to sleep, is having a very hard time processing the Greek characters in front of him. 

“How’s that going for you?” Quentin asks dryly, and Eliot glares at him.

“I just transported you to the other side of the planet, you have to be nice to me.”

“I must have missed that in the terms of service,” Quentin quips, leaning forward to smack a kiss against Eliot’s forehead. “You know, I’ve never been outside the US before?”

“Really? Not even like... spring break?”

“Do I seem like the Cancun type to you?” Quentin says, sarcastic, and Eliot gives him a teasing, assessing look.

“I think you could shock everyone, if you wanted too.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes, sliding off of the arm of the chair and down into Eliot’s lap. He’s radiant with the Mediterranean sunlight, his soft brown hair shining with it. “The way I am with you isn’t the way I usually am,” Quentin says softly, like Eliot might not know this, might not have been paying attention.

“Margo and I used to come out here to Ibiza every year,” Eliot says thoughtfully, tracing his fingers under the helm of Quentin’s t shirt. The soft skin on his lower back is warm and damp with sweat, and oh, sweet little witch, Quentin melts into his arms, eyes attentive. “There’s a big party every spring called _encanto oculto._ It’s kind of like Magician Burning Man, but with more drugs and sex.”

“_More_ drugs and sex than Burning Man?” Quentin teases, dimples creasing in the corners of his mouth. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Well, you know how I was back then.”

“Mmhm,” Quentin hums, thoughtful, reaching up to slide his fingers into the open front of Eliot’s shirt. “No magical drug orgies for you now.”

“Indeed,” Eliot agrees, and he can’t even bring himself to feel too sad about that, with the solid weight of Q’s perfect little body in his lap. “We should go swimming. You can’t come to the Mediterranean for the first time and _not_ swim, Q, that would be tragic.”

Quentin blinks, startled, clearly expecting this to go in an entirely different direction. Eliot grins, and nuzzles in to kiss him softly. “Eliot– There’s an angry god chasing us, I don’t think we have time to just... go swimming like we’re on vacation?”

“We’ve been in crisis after crisis for weeks, and it’s only ramping up from here. I’m not sure we’re going to have time to just– be together, if we don’t make it ourselves. I don’t want something to happen and have _regrets_ about us, little one.”

Quentin’s fingers still where they’re playing with Eliot’s chest hair, looking seriously at Eliot for a heartbeat, two. Then he chuffs out a little laugh, tugs at one of the open edges of Eliot’s shirt. “I had a fucking _plan_, Waugh. I was going to sweet talk you into bed and get you to fuck all your energy out so you’d finally _take a nap_, and you’re over here talking to me all soft and sincere about _regrets._”

“I promise you, I can fuck you after we swim. It will still work.”

“Oh, are you sure? Your dick’s not made of sugar, gonna melt right off like the Wicked Witch?”

“Well,” Eliot mutters, amused, because Quentin is _ridiculous,_ and Eliot adores him. “That would explain why you can’t keep your mouth off it.”

Clearly choosing not to dignify that with a response, Quentin just rolls his eyes. He does lick his lips in the process, though, so Eliot feels justified in continuing to stare at them. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Weak ass excuse,” Eliot dismisses, nudging Q out of his lap. “If you’re not comfortable skinny dipping, then just wear your boxers.”

The water glitters a beautiful turquoise in the late day sun as they pick their way down from the villa, Quentin’s fingers tangled in Eliot’s. It’s hard, in the warmth of the sunshine and the breeze off the sea, to feel any sense of danger or worry. Mykonos feels like a little bubble of safety, isolated from the chaos of possible hedge wars and angry gods. _This is why people have honeymoons_, Eliot thinks, as he watches Quentin stare out into the water. Sailboats dot the horizon, and Quentin pauses to watch them, a little smile on his face.

“You know, when I was little, I used to dream about going on a boat quest,” he admits to Eliot, looking a little sheepish. “In Fillory, usually, but– I always thought I’d like to sail.”

“We should come back, after this is all over,” Eliot says fondly, swinging their joined hands a little. “There’s so much magic to find in this part of the world. We can rent a sailboat, chase some spells. Send Margo home to babysit the coven for a little bit while we live it up for once.”

“She’d burn the place down out of boredom,” Q points out, turning away from the boats to continue down the path. It doesn’t stop him from swaying a little into Eliot’s side, bumping into him as they walk. Quietly, he says, “That does sound really nice, though. I think I’d love to be on a boat with you.”

They find a little cove, set away from the rest of the settlement on the island and mostly deserted. There isn’t much of a beach to speak of, only a small strip of soft sand which turns rapidly into pebbles and smoothed over sea rocks, which is probably the main reason none of the tourists venture out this way. It’s fine, though, they’re not here to sunbathe. Eliot, who has taken significantly weaker excuses to be naked in the past, strips right down to his skin, folding his shirt and slacks carefully and setting them on his shoes. Quentin, of course, gets stuck in his shirt. Eliot makes a valiant attempt not to laugh at him too much, still gets flipped off for his trouble, but gets to watch Quentin wriggle out of his skinny jeans nonetheless. There’s a moment of indecision, where Q’s clearly considering keeping his boxers on.

“C’mon,” Eliot needles, grinning, spreading his arms to indicate, well. Everything about himself. “You don’t want to walk up to the villa in wet underwear, do you?”

“You’re the worst,” Quentin mutters, but does in fact shuck his boxers, leaving his clothes in a heap next to the neat pile of Eliot’s. He shoots Eliot a look which clearly says _happy now_? and Eliot grins, swats a resounding slap onto his cute little ass, and then dives for the water.

It’s brilliantly warm and buoyant, swirling around them, clear and clean and wonderful. Eliot’s _missed_ this, hasn’t gotten to swim in the Mediterranean since the last time he was in Ibiza, and even then he’d been out of his fucking mind on drugs and sex and booze. The simple pleasure of warm clean water was lost on him then.

It wasn’t now, as Quentin chase him into the water, laughing. Eliot lets himself be caught, and they wrestle in the shallow sea, Quentin trying valiantly to climb onto Eliot long enough to dunk him under. Q laughter rings out through the little cove, oh, he’s _happy_, splashing around with Eliot here in the beautiful turquoise water. Eliot’s not sure he’s ever heard Q laugh like this. 

They play until they’re tired from it, panting a little as Quentin clings to Eliot in the warm water. He’s all skin and bright eyes, his wet hair hanging in curtains around his face, looking up at Eliot with a smile wide enough to bring his dimples out. Overwhelmed, Eliot reaches out to tuck his hair back, brush the shell of his ear. 

“I love you,” Eliot breathes, feeling awed, and he’s maybe not been planning to say it like this. To a part of him, maybe six months seems too fast to fall in love, but Q doesn’t look surprised. Eliot doesn’t feel scared by that, the concept of being known, the way he might have been before. Quentin wasn’t a _danger_ to him, to his coven, to the facade Eliot needed to do his job. Quentin made him better, stronger, mended all the cracks. “You don’t have to say it– I just want you to know. No regrets.”

“El,” Q murmurs, arms clinging tight to Eliot as they move in the shallow water together. “You brought literal magic into my life. You gave me a home, and you protect me, and you take care of me. You make me feel smart and capable and respected. And you have an _amazing dick_. How could I _not_ love you, too?”

Eliot laughs, and loves Q for the joke, for the release of tension so he doesn’t fucking– fall apart, right here in the middle of the sea. “Priorities,” he teases. Q gives a serious little hum and nod, all wide earnest eyes, but he cracks with a smile the moment Eliot leans into kiss him.

They kiss lazily in the water, briney kisses that taste of salt and skin and sun, slow and deep and dirty. The buoyancy of the water keeps them up, mostly, as they get too distracted to tread, but they keep slipping beneath the waves. _Sink with me,_ Eliot thinks desperately, as he clings to Q’s slender frame. _Like the Riace Warriors, we’ll get lost in the sea for centuries, just the two of us._

Floating on his back in the warm water, tied to Quentin by joined hands, Eliot thinks there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to win this fight. Nothing he wouldn’t do to preserve this, protect it, keep what’s his safe. 

They dry off with a spell, enough to slide back into their clothes. Eliot doesn’t bother to button his shirt, decides to carry his shoes as Quentin wriggles back into his t-shirt and jeans, scoops up his own boots. He seems quiet, but he’s still smiling softly, so Eliot decides not to be worried about him. Instead, he loops his arm around Q’s shoulders, holding him close as they start the long winding journey back up to the villa in the slowly setting sunlight. It’s slow going, especially when Eliot’s taking every excuse to back Quentin up into a rock and kiss him, but Q doesn’t seem to mind.

It leaves them both thoroughly worked up by the time they get back to the villa. Even covered in salt and sand, Eliot can think of nothing besides backing Quentin into the bedroom and stripping his clothes off again. Luckily for him Quentin seems to have the same plan, thoroughly aimable to being kissed senseless and stripped of his clothes, tipped backwards onto the bed. 

“Hello, there,” Q mutters, dorky and sweet as Eliot climbs on top of him, reaching his hand down between them to cup Eliot’s dick. He’s only half-hard in his trousers, but it still feels nice, the pressure of Quentin’s strong hand. Eliot hums, rolling his hips down against Quentin’s palm, nuzzling his nose against Q’s check. “Hmm, you were right, definitely still works.”

Huffing out a laugh, Eliot trails his lips up Q’s dear face until he can steal another kiss, melt into it, melt against this lovely boy in his bed. “Told you,” he breathes out against Quentin’s lips, and Quentin giggles, bare legs coming up to hold Eliot’s hips.

“So what are you gonna do with it?” Q teases, playful, and Eliot grins, heart swelling. Quentin’s skin tastes like salt and sun, and his hair is pooled out on the bed beneath them, long and liquid. He’s beautiful, and he deserves the world. 

“So many options,” Eliot muses, rocking down against Q’s hips where they’re pushed together, feeling the line of Q’s own dick starting to get hard against him. “You wanted to fuck out my energy, though, and I have to admit it’s tempting.”

“Fucking me?” Quentin breathes, arching just a little, a little wave so when he presses up into Eliot they drag together, chest to stomach to groin.

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes, as heat flares low in his belly. “_Really_ fucking you, little witch. Fucking you to _wear you out._”

“Think you can?” Quentin teases, half a challenge, and Eliot grins. Pulling back, he shrugs off his shirt, makes sure Quentin’s watching when he goes for his belt, pulling it open with quick deliberate movements. “_Fuck,_” Quentin breathes, pushing up onto his elbows as Eliot pulls out his own cock, working it in his hand. It feels good, to pass his palm over himself, but Quentin’s eyes on him feel _better_, hungry and dark.

“I think I can,” he agrees, reaching down to get his hands on Q’s hips. With a tug, both physical and magical, Eliot flips him over, manhandling him until Quentin’s up on his knees, face down on the bed.

“_Fucking shit, Eliot,_” Quentin moans, going boneless, giving over to Eliot so easily, good little witch. 

Eliot runs his hands appreciatively up the length of Quentin’s spine and down again, taking in the musculature of his back, his tiny waist, his cute little upturned ass. On his knees like this, the soft pucker of his hole is on display, vulnerable and sweet. Eliot hums to himself, thoughtfully, brushing the pad of his thumb against it and watching the muscle twitch. “Maybe I should kiss you here,” Eliot drawls, and watches Quentin’s body respond to the suggestion. “Spread you out like an art piece and eat you alive. Make you cry with how good you feel before I give you my cock.”

“_Oh god_, El, please,” Quentin pants, and Eliot grins, can’t say no to that, can never say no to Quentin really. With a chuckle, he leans forward and brushes his lips to the base of Quentin’s spine, kissing down the sea-salty skin of his back until he can get his mouth were Quentin wants it. A punched out, shakey moan breaks from Quentin’s chest, and it’s all Eliot can do not to grin, to stay focused on the task he’s set himself: coax out every single sound he can get with his lips and tongue.

It’s a simple tug of telekinesis to pull lube out of his bag, call it over to the bed so he can work the cap off. “I didn’t bring edible lube to Greece,” Eliot says mournfully, slicking up two fingers and pressing one final, tongue-fucking kiss to Quentin’s soft little hole, before pushing forward with a finger. “So we’ll have to explore this to it’s full conclusion some other time.”

“I can’t believe you– _oh_! I can’t believe you brought lube to Greece at all,” Quentin laughs, half moaning as Eliot works his finger deep, twisting until he can hit Quentin’s prostate.

“Can’t you thought?” Eliot teases, startling a laugh and a gasp out of Q. “You must have noticed I can’t really keep my hands off you.”

“I’m so fucking lucky,” Quentin breathes out, sounding blissed out already, and Eliot hides a smile against his skin. _No_, he thinks privately as he slides in another finger, _no I’m the lucky one._ “I thought you were going to fuck me?”

“Oh, I am,” Eliot promises, twisting two fingers inside Quentin as he relaxes onto the stretch, bears down and takes it like a champ. He’s worked up, eager from the rimming and the hour of foreplay that was rubbing together naked in the water, and Eliot’s fingers sink into him so easily. “But I’m going to take my time.”

If the whimper he gets in response is any indication, Quentin’s not too thrilled about that idea. But Eliot wants to _fuck_, feeling an animal wildness in himself that just says _get inside, and get inside again, and again, and again_, and to be rough like that he needs to be careful now. So he is, works Quentin open with two, then three, then four fingers, until he’s slick with lube and open and shaking.

“Eliot, _please_,” Q sobs, as Eliot twists his hand again, and it’s the last straw, really, the last of Eliot’s self-control leaves him in a rush.

Staggering up onto his knees, Eliot pumps his fist around his own cock a few times, spreading lube, and then pushes forward to line his cock up with Quentin’s open, needy hole. The first slide in is careful, and then– then Eliot abandons care, leaning forward to pin Quentin’s arms and shoulders to the bed, get the right angle so he can fuck and fuck _hard_ and it’s–

It’s incredible. Quentin takes him so well and _loves_ it, his body’s _built_ for pleasure like this and he's a whining, liquid pool of soft hair and flushed boy under Eliot. The sound of skin slapping against skin and their hot little sex sounds fills the air, and Eliot lets go with it, chases pleasure deep Quentin’s body, the toe-curling feeling of fucking deep and well.

“You take it so well,” Eliot pants, and Quentin swears, arching back against him. “Fuck, I love you, Q.”

“_Eliot_,” Quentin hisses, worming one arm down between his spread knees to get at his cock, and–

Eliot’s brain is shorting out, it really is, all lost in skin and sweat and sex, and the feeling of Quentin’s body tightening around him as he chases his own pleasure. “Want you to come on my cock,” Eliot pants, gripping hard at Quentin’s hips, pulling him back to meet every thrust.

Quentin comes with a soft shout, going vice-tight around Eliot’s cock, and Eliot fucks him through it, slowly letting go of the grip he has on his own pleasure. He slams forward when he comes, hard enough to shove Q up the bed a little, and it’s a long, slow, beautiful wave of pleasure, starting in his balls and expanding outward, cock spending deep inside Quentin’s body.

“Fucking hell,” Eliot moans, pulling out as Quentin collapses down onto the bed, like a pool of well-fucked hedge witch. “Jesus Christ, Q.”

The only response is a soft little moan and a half hearted wave of fingers, and Eliot chuckles. Flopping down onto the bed, he fits an arm around Q, who turns just enough to snuggle in against him.

“That was...”

“A lot?” Eliot wonders, prickles of concern that maybe he’d pushed too hard, been too rough.

“It was a lot. It was _incredible_. I’m not sure I can feel my legs anymore.”

Eliot grins, satisfied, and reaches down to tickle the sensitive skin behind Quentin’s knee. He yelps and squirms, glaring at Eliot. “I think you’re fine,” Eliot mutters, fondly, as Quentin settles from his squirming, ending up even closer than before. “We should shower before we sleep.”

Quentin makes a sleepy noise, which is maybe agreement or protest, but Eliot can’t exactly tell. Either way, he makes no move to get up. That’s fine, though. They have time.

__

“So what are we looking for? Delos isn’t exactly a new archaeological site,” Quentin asks, the next morning, as they perch on the bow of the fishing boat Margo had procured to transport them to the island. 

Eliot, who’s been trying to push down waves of sea-sickness so as not to ruin Quentin’s boat-quest fantasies, is feeling rather uncharitable towards this particular decision of hers, fucking portal specialist that she was. But even feeling a little green around the gills, it’s hard to ignore how Quentin’s practically _glowing_ from being on the water.

“First rule of magical spelunking,” Margo says, all business, standing firmly in her sensible boat shoes with her hands on her hips. “Muggles miss shit because they have no reason to think it’s relevant. Sure we’re not gonna find a spellbook here, but that’s not what we’re looking for.”

“Cryptic, but sure, okay. I’ll roll with that,” Quentin agrees, sounding downright cheerful.

“You’re in a good mood, little witch,” Eliot teases, trying to focus on Quentin’s sun kissed face, the dimples on his cheeks, rather than the rocking under their feet.

“We’re _on a boat_,” Quentin says, enthusiastically, like Eliot might not have noticed.

Their fisherman chaufer drops them off on a beach near the ruins, with a promise to return in a couple hours. A row of carved lions, long eroded down by the ravishes of time and weather great the three of them as they begin picking their way through the ruins. 

“Remember, we’re looking for information, not artifacts. Mosaics, frescos, sculptures, that kind of thing,” Margo reminds them. “Divide and conquer, that’s the whole reason you’re here. We only have a couple hours and we need to cover as much ground as possible.”

“Are you always this bossy?” Quentin wonders, and it’s a mark of how well they’ve hit it off that rather than take offense, Margo just grins at him.

“I dunno, do you always like it this much?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Quentin agrees through a blush, and Eliot feels a swell of affection for them so strong it almost knocks him on his ass. 

“Kinky, but not what we’re here for,” he cuts in, mostly to watch Quentin’s blush deepen, which it does, deliciously. Eliot steals a kiss, soft and brief, despite Margo’s noise of exasperation, then peels off on his own to head up to the left of the main staircase. Quentin heads off to the right, and Margo heads up the stairs, 

It’s sweaty and tedious work, climbing through the ruins, pouring over art objects and pieces of architecture. It’s still a nice change of pace, though, and Eliot lets himself enjoy the sun, the simple task, the feeling of sand shifting under his boots. He finds a couple of interesting mosaics, some of which might depict some Goddess or another, but none of it is very substantial or helpful. At least one of their precious few hours has passed by the time anything at all interesting crops up.

“Hey, I think I found something,” comes Quentin’s voice, spoken as though he was standing next to Eliot, sent through magical means. “Over by the weird pillars, there’s a fresco.”

He’s kneeling in front of what might be an alter by the time Margo and Eliot catch up to him, hair up in a bun and taking notes and making sketches in his notebook. He gestures wordlessly, and Eliot crouches down to get a better look.

“That kind of looks like OLU, right?” Quentin points out, gesturing to the figure of a woman, dark-haired and dressed in blue, surrounded by flowers.

“Sure does,” Eliot agrees, following the fresco with his eyes. It seems to be telling a story of some kind, the figure of Persephone and a man, bearded and crowned with a three-headed dog at his side. “Persephone and Hades?”

“Looks that way,” Margo agrees, walking around the altar, looking at the next side. “Here’s another OLU. And she’s like– hella pregnant.”

“What?” Quentin asks, craning around the structure to get a look. “That doesn’t make sense, all of Persephone’s children were by Zeus, not Hades.”

“That we know of,” Eliot points out, standing to circle around to the third side. “Yeah, she’s holding a baby on this side. And like, covered in flowers and there’s lighting everywhere.”

Quentin scrambles to his feet, circling around to the last side. “This is just a fox. A fox surrounded by lightning and flowers.” 

“Holy shit,” Margo breathes, face breaking into shock, looking from Quentin to Eliot. At their matching blank looks, she rolls her eyes. “Trickster gods are portrayed as foxes! And Kady said Reynard had really weird like... yellow animal eyes, right? Like a fox?”

“Oh fuck,” Eliots breathes, everything clicking into place.

At the same moment, Quentin says, “He’s her son. That’s what we were missing, that’s how he got through the door. That’s why he’s targeting people worshipping OLU.”

“She’s his mother.”

“But why hasn’t she cleaned up his mess then,” Margo wonders, looking back at the altar. “You said she’s pretty much MIA. Why is she not dealing with him?”

“Who knows? But now we know for sure he’s a god. What do you think the chances are he’s acting out to get her attention,” Eliot muses.

“High,” Margo sighs, and Quentin nods.

“Great, so we just need to– Kill a god. The son of Hades and Persephone. No way that could go wrong,” Eliot summarizes, his stomach sinking. Well fuck.

“We need to update everyone, all the other hedge leaders,” Quentin says quietly, crossing his arms over his stomach. “He’s not going to stop.”

“No he’s not,” Margo agreed. “Think Marina will see it that way?”

__

She doesn’t. Or she doesn’t enough to agree to help anyway. All conversations with Marina are incredibly frustrating, but this one takes the cake as perhaps the most frustrated Eliot’s ever been with her. Without any proof that her coven’s actually in danger, she refuses to throw in with them.

“She did, at least, agree to stop breathing down our necks,” Eliot sighs, looking around at the little collection of witches gathered in his office, the ‘kill Reynard quest’ kids. Julia and Kady sitting together on the couch, Margo reclined in a chair, and Quentin perched next to him on the desk, feet swinging. 

“Great, so she’s just going to magnanimously not get in our way while we solve this shit for her?” Margo elborates, her face twisted with a look of disdain. “God, I hate that bitch.”

“Join the party,” Kady says darkly, to which Eliot’s inclined to agree.

“I think we’re going to accomplish more with a small group than an army, anyway,” Quentin says reluctantly, leaning back on his hands on the desk. “We could have all the hedges in New York on our side, and I don’t think a full frontal assault with fucking magic missles would get us jack shit.”

“What we need is serious battle magic,” Kady agrees thoughtfully. “Not the shit I can pop off in my sleep, either. No, we need _real_, world changing, nuclear level battle magic.”

“Except we don’t have access to those kinds of spells, no one does,” Eliot points out, and Margo nods.

“It’s true. We’ve managed to pull together most of what is available in the wider magical community. Even what was taught at Brakebills wouldn’t have been that strong.”

“What about what _wasn’t_ taught,” Kady asks, giving Eliot a pointed look. “Come on, are you really telling me that Mayakovsky doesn’t have a book on god-level magic.”

“Even if he did once, I doubt he does still,” Eliot sighes. “Look, there’s a reason Harriet and her coven are practically going to war with The Library. There’s a lot of information that used to be available in the world that isn’t anymore. And I don’t think we have time for our usual method of ‘skip the spell book and go straight to the source’ on this one.”

“Who’s Mayakovsky?” Quentin asks, looking between Kady and Eliot.

“An utter cunt,” Margo says bitterly, at the same time Kady says “He’s a cock,” and Julia says “The worst person ever.”

“He’s a teacher at Brakebills,” Eliot sighs, looking at Quentin. “And yes, calling him a dick is pretty unfair to a perfectly inoffensive body part.”

“Right,” Quentin says, slowly, looking between them. “So definitely not the person you want to stroll up to and ask a favor, then.”

“Oh you can ask,” Julia sighs. “Or one of us alums can, anyway. He might just try to see my boobs in exchange or something.”

“Okay, what the fuck? That guy’s a _teacher_?”

“Have you not figured out by now that Brakebills is kind of terrible?” Eliot asks, giving Quentin a fond look. 

“Yeah, well, I mean. I got that. But there’s a difference between telling me to go off my meds and letting a creep like that teach.”

“I don’t think I have any leg to stand on when it comes to sleeping with my students,” Eliot points out lightly, and Margo snorts. 

“That’s different,” Quentin mutters, blushing red, but he’s also not wrong. It is different, everything about this thing with Q has always been different. He reaches out, snaking an arm around Quentin’s waist and tucking him in close to Eliot’s side.

“Listen, I don’t want to go see the asshole either, but I think it’s the only lead we’ve got,” Kady points out, and Eliot has to admit she might have a point. 

Getting to Brakebills South is an entirely different matter. It’s not a location that one can portal to, part of the Bond that kept Mayakovsky trapped there kept portals from being opened anywhere near the school buildings. They could always resort to a janked up version of the trials, turn themselves into animals and _fly_ in, but honestly, nobody wanted to be a goose. That was pretty much plan Z. 

Their best bet, everyone agreed, was for one of the alums to simply ask Dean Fogg to _let them pass_. The snag was that between them they had 3 alumni keys and five people. Margo opted out quickly, bad experience with Mayakovsky from their first year was more than enough to keep her from wanting to brave the tundra. Kady made a valid point that she was the battle magic expert among them, and therefore should probably tag along.

“Then I should stay here,” Julia say ruefully. “ Kady and I should be on different ends of the necklace. And also, let’s be real, Mayakovsky is way worse to women.”

Which is, unfortunately, very true. Though he’d never exactly been kind to Eliot either, being as he was, the epitome of the classical magician: sexist and vaguely homophobic in a dull, irritating way.

Brakebills South is just as miserable as Eliot remembers it being. Even stepping through the warded door from the NY campus isn’t enough enough to prepare him for the chill of it. Quentin wraps his hoodie more tightly around himself, looking around with curiosity. He’s been watching everything like a hawk since they stepped inside the Brakebills campus, face tableau of of curiosity and resentment. Eliot had left him and Kady waiting just inside the wards long enough for Eliot get access to the portal to Brakebills South, and then they’d all hustled through before anyone could really take stock of the two hedge witches being smuggled onto the campus. 

Everything about being back on campus set Eliot’s skin on edge. He was cagey already, from the impending threat of Reynard and the travel around the world, from all the horror and death he’d seen in the last month. To be back on the Brakebills campus felt like a step back in time, and he found that he did not like it. It made him feel like the terrified kid he’d been, again, desperate for anything that would get him out of his brain long enough to stop being so fucking afriad.

Now, in Mayakovsky’s den of iniquity and magical research, that feeling didn’t lessen even a little. Paranoid, maybe, but his experience with Brakebills South had ended in him and Margo nearly getting alcohol poisoning while trying to ignore how Mayakovsky kept trying to look down her shirt. They’d only made it through the last portion of the trials out of spite and fear of being separated from each other. Now, Quentin is like a moth to the flame, full of all that curiosity Eliot has spent months nurturing. He immediately moves towards a bookshelf packed with spellbooks, bloodhound-like, but Eliot catches his wrist.

“Careful,” Eliot mutters darkly, feeling the pull of kinetic magic drawing on his hyper-alert senses like a beacon. “There’s a trap set here.”

Pinching and expanding his fingers, Eliot scans the little rectangular window of magic across the floor. Mirroring him, Quentin and Kady do the same. There, on the floor, the invisible sigil of an anti-gravity spell, waiting like a bear trap.

“Was that going to just– launch me into the ceiling?” Quentin asks, half indigent, half full of that wonder he always got with magic.

“Probably. I’d bet there’s another one up there to keep you stuck once you hit it,” Eliot says darkly, and then louder. “Mayakovsky! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“-The _fuck_ is yelling?” Comes the familiar Russian slur, preceding the man himself around the corner. Mayakovsky looks exactly like Eliot remembers, scruffy and sweater clad, bottle of vodka clutched in his hand and the terrible beanie on his head. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Charming, as always,” Eliot bites out, trying desperately to ignore the way all of his skin was practically crawling off his body, then gestures to the sigil on the floor. “Can you do something about this please? I was a student of yours, about seven years ago now, probably. I’m here because I need a spell, and unfortunately– You’re our best lead.”

“Student, ya? If I taught you, then surely you can get rid of simple sigil. Even if you are running with hedge witches now.”

“Oh for the love of fuck,” Eliot sighs, then spreds his hands, washing a wave of magical dispellment through the kinetic sigil. Beside him, Quentin tugs the sleeve of his hoodie down over his hedge tattoos self-consciously, and Eliot feels anger burn low in his stomach. Fuck, Quentin has worked _hard_ for his stars, he should be _proud of them._ Not ashamed, like there’s anything lesser about how he learned his magic. 

“I do remember you, Brideshead-Revisited,” Mayakovsky chuckles, gesturing for them to follow him over to a chair near the fire. “Very gifted telekinetic, but lacked the drive to hone your abilities. Broke into my office and stole three bottles of vodka. Good locator spell, I was impressed.”

“It didn’t occur to you to _wonder_ why a _twenty-three year old_ wanted three bottles of vodka?” Eliot hisses, because honestly, fuck Brakebills, fuck their _‘everybody medicates except the people who need it’_ attitude and their aloholic teachers and how little they gave a shit about anyone who didn’t fit into the right fucking boxes.

“I assumed you were trying to get laid.” Mayakovsky’s drawls, collapsing into his chair with a groan and another swing of vodka. His eyes flicker over to Quentin, who’s standing at Eliot’s side, arm curled over his chest to clutch at his messenger bag. “They’re always trying to get laid. _This one_, for instance, I can practically smell it on him. Horny like a fox–”

Eliot reaches for telekinesis before he can stop himself, gets Mayakovsky by the throat with it. “Keep him _out_ of your mouth, you creepy fucking pervert.”

Mayakovsky has the gall to laugh, and Eliot wants to fucking eviserate him. It’s only Quentin’s hand slipping quietly into his that grounds him, pulls him out of the anger churning in his brain. It’s not even fucking Mayakovsky he’s angry with, not really. But Mayakovsky there, and a creep, and an easier target than Reynard, or the incorporeal entity that is the institution of classical magic. And well. It’s not like anyone in this room is surprised that Q’s a bit of a trigger point for Eliot, least of all Q himself. 

“They always want to get laid,” Mayakovsky chuckles to himself again, and Eliot– makes himself focus on the soft way Quentin is running his thumb along the inside of Eliot’s wrist. 

“Understand me,” Eliot says, very calmly, very clearly. “I’m about to go to war with a god to protect my coven. Don’t doubt for a moment that I won’t start right here, right now if you give me even the slightest reason to.”

“For this one? You go to war to protect half-rate hedge witch with less power in him than you’ve got in your _pinkie toe._”

“You really don’t have a sense of self preservation, do you?” Quentin snaps. Mayakovsky’s a fucking prick, and he’s _wrong,_ oh, Eliot can feel Quentin’s magic swirling in him. _He’s got a power you’ll never understand, because all you can see is the way things get broken,_ Eliot thinks, and the anger drains out of him, looking down at Q with something like reverence swelling in his chest. _Mending_ on a cosmic scale, that’s what Quentin’s magic was. He could fix groups of people, whole worlds, gods broken at the edge of creation would _beg_ to have Quentin fix them–

“Eliot, we’re here for the book,” Kady cuts in, and right. Eliot’s supposed to be helping to protect her, not Quentin.

“What _book_?” Mayakovsky asks long-sufferingly, taking a swig of vodka and fixing Kady with a lecherous grin. “I remember you, too. Stolen anything new, recently?”

“Not yet, but I’m not above it,” Kady snarks back, in a way that is maybe a threat. “We need a book on battle magic. _Powerful_ shit, _world-changing_ shit. Rumor was you had something like that, once the battle magic teacher left Brakebills.”

“Ah, what could you _possibly_ need to kill that your charming personality can’t simply remove from existence for you?”

“It’s better for you if you don’t know,” Quentin cuts in, and Eliot has to tamp down the urge to move in front of him as Mayakovsky’s eyes turn back. 

“Dangerous of you to think so little of me, _hedge witch._”

“The _book,_” Kady hisses, and Mayakovsky sighs, leaning back into the chair.

“I don’t have it, Sultry-But-Damaged,” Mayakovsky dismisses, waving his hand into the ether. He picks up his bottle again, and fixes Eliot with a knowing look. “Library of the fucking Neitherlands came through, collecting all books of that power. Something about a poison planet. But Brideshead-Revisited must have guessed this already. I’m sure he told you.”

“So you have literally nothing that can help us, and we came all this way for nothing,” Eliot surmise, and feeling the throb behind his right eye start up again. “Great, fucking fantastic. Well, I’d say ‘nice to see you’ but I don’t think you’ve believe me anyway.

“Nope,” Mayakovsky calls after them as they turn, heading back the way they came. 

“What a prick,” Kady hisses, shaking off the lingering effects of the portal as they step back into Eliot’s office in the safehouse from the Brakebills NY campus. “Why do they still let him teach.”

“He’s a brilliant theorist. If they cut him loose he’d probably go on a bender then wind up dead in a ditch somewhere. Keeping him on staff means he keeps churning out shit,” Eliot mutters, and god he wants to take a _shower,_ honestly, he feels dirty. “_Fuck_ Brakebills and the horse they road in on, honestly.”

“Fucking preach,” Kady mutters, then shoots Eliot a look. “Now what?”

“Get some sleep, reconvene in the morning?”

“Right,” Kady sighs. “Guess I’ll go find Julia.”

Eliot half expects a quip from Quentin, the continuation of the gentle needling he’s been giving both girls for the last week. It never comes, though, and Kady leaves the office, closing the door with a soft click. Quentin’s brows are pinched, and he looks thoughtful, dower in a way that doesn’t bode well. Concerned, Eliot reaches out to touch his arm, and Quentin leans into his touch automatically.

“You okay, baby?” Eliot mutters, rubbing his thumb into Quentin’s elbow, but Q just shrugs.

“Yeah, I’m– Just, you know. Some stuff he said was kind of too real,” Quentin shrugs, dropping his bag onto the floor near Eliot’s desk and moving to lean against it.

“Mayakovsky?” Eliot asks, running back what the asshole had said to Quentin in his brain. Or about him, really. “He’s a dick, Q. He’s not just a perv with no outlets beside scared college kids and probably some questionable website logins. He’s the epitome of the classical training drag, and just as stuck inside it.” 

Quentin makes a pinched face. “You don’t have to talk me down, El. I’m used to people pointing out how mediocre I am. _Just_ good enough to squeak into G&T, but tripping behind Julia the whole way. Very thoroughly middle of my Ivy League class. In fact, you’re so determined to tell me I’m special that you seem not to notice that you’re the _only one saying it!_” Quentin’s voice, which had been getting louder with each progressive word, cracks a little at the end, and he looks away. Down at his hands, then back up at Eliot he says. “So that did a really bad job of making it seem like I don’t care, right?”

“Right,” Eliot agrees, and he can’t help but smile a little, because Quentin’s honesty with him still feels like a blessing. He steps over towards the desk to lean against it, their shoulders brushing, and gives Quentin an assessing look. “Will you humor me with a thought exercise?”

Quentin squints at him, skeptical. “This sounds like something I’m going to hate.”

“Maybe,” Eliot acknowledges, but doesn’t relent. At Quentin’s begrudging nod, Eliot possites: “What’s my top priority in everything I do, Q?”

“Keeping the coven safe?” Quentin answers automatically, and the tension in him ratchet down a bit when Eliot smiles at him. 

“And a very close second?”

A few beats then– “Margo and– me? Keeping us... making sure we’re both safe, and. Happy?”

“Yeah, little one,” Eliot agrees softly, because the question in it still breaks his heart a bit. “Now. If we acknowledge that the two priorities in my life are: keep the coven safe, and keep you safe, what can we extrapolate from the fact that I keep bringing you along with me when I take these little field trips?”

“That– You think I can handle myself, and can help you protect the coven?”

“Yes,” Eliot agrees, and watches the pleased little look spread over Quentin’s face. _Oh, little witch, why can’t you see what I see when I look at you?_ “Listen, Q. I know I’m– protective. And I let it run wild with you, because I know you like it, usually. But I never want to give you the impression that I think you’re not capable of handling yourself, outside of whatever kind of game we might be playing. If I’m doing that, then I need to tone it back, right here, right now.”

“No,” Quentin rushes to say, then _blushes,_ which– oh, Eliot loves that. “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

“I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you to have my back,” Eliot says seriously, and Quentin nods. He pushes up off the desk, shuffling around towards Eliot. Eliot adjusts for him automatically, leaning forward off his hands to slide them around Quentin’s waist and shuffling his feet a little further apart so Quentin can tuck in close, stand between his legs.

“When you got Mayakovsky by the throat,” Quentin whispers, reaching forward to run his fingers across the button up panel of Eliot’s shirt, toying with the buttons. “Jesus, there were thirty solid seconds there where all I could think about was dropping to my knees at your feet.”

“Mmm,” Eliot hums thoughtfully. The worries Q has about his own abilities feels like a more serious conversation they need to have at a time when Quentin’s actually going to be able to believe him. Maybe when Margo’s there to back Eliot up about it. But for now, Q’s playing with his clothes a little, and giving Eliot bedroom eyes, and honestly they might all die the moment Reynard gets wind of them hunting him. What’s the fucking point of life if Eliot had to turn away Q’s fingers slipping through the gaps in his shirt to play with his chest hair. “You do look so fucking pretty on your knees at my feet. Like you’re meant to be there.”

Quentin’s pleased little shiver is literally all Eliot needs to convince him to put the conversation on hold, lean in and steal a kiss instead. “El,” he moans, when Eliot pulls back, not even like he’s asking for something, just like he’s got to– to remind them both, who’s doing this to him.

“What would you be doing at my feet, little witch?” Eliot asks casually. “Gonna suck my cock or just keep it warm for me?”

Quentin gives a little startled sound, blinking at Eliot in surprise and– curiosity? “I– What?”

“Well, I know you like having me in your mouth,” Eliot reasons, brushing his thumb against Quentin’s lips. They part automatically, and Eliot smiles, slides his index and middle fingers in to stroke against Q’s warm-velvet tongue. Slides them out to catch Quentin’s chin, hold him steady. “You could have that, you know? I’d give you that. Let you curl up under my desk and just keep me warm–”

“While you’re working,” Quentin breathes, pressing his whole body forward, eyes lit up with excitement. “While you’re– talking to someone– maybe?”

“We could talk to Margo about it,” Eliot grins, because well. It’s not like he and Margo haven’t teamed up for games before. “I’m not making anyone be a part of anything related to sex without their consent, but I don’t think she’d mind at all.”

Excitement and embarrassment battle on Quentin’s face, and he tips forward, burying his nose in Eliot’s collarbones. “Why do I want this so much?” he breathes, shoulders shaking a little, and Eliot– hadn’t meant to push him this hard right now, honestly. Wraps his arms around Quentin’s perfect little body and holds on tight. 

“You like feeling safe, and like you’re mine,” Eliot murmurs, rocking Quentin gently in his arms. “Every game we play is just an extension of that, baby.”

“Can I have it now?” Quentin whispers, and he’s play-acting the shyness, just a little bit, now. Quentin’s not actually all that nervous about asking for what he wants once he gets going. But it still zings arousal through Eliot like a sparkler, and he can feel Quentin hard against his hip. As long as it worked for both of them, what the fuck did it matter?

“Of course you can, baby,” Eliot murmurs, tugging Quentin back by his hair and gently nudging him down to his knees. “You can have Daddy’s cock anytime you want it.”

Quentin rolls his eyes a little indulgently, because the fact that he likes _this one thing_ still does actually embarrass him. Can’t work himself up to saying it, but he’s indulging Eliot because it _does_ make him hot, too. His fingers go for Eliot’s belt, and Eliot bats him away. He’s never going to miss an opportunity to lovingly feed Quentin his cock, never, ever. The look of utter devotion on Quentin’s face as he just... waits, patiently, for Eliot to give it to him, might be better than the blow job.

Which is saying something, because it’s a fucking spectacular blow job. Quentin’s mouth is warm, wet silk, open and eager, blindingly hot. Eliot gets both hands cradled around Quentin’s skull and he goes pliant, boneless and willing in Eliot’s hands.

With the utmost care, Eliot lifts his hips up, sliding the length of his dick into Quentin’s mouth, and Q _moans_ for it, sending shivery little waves of pleasure shooting up Eliot’s dick, curling in his spine.

“Fuck, look at you, little one,” Eliot murmurs, petting softly at Quentin’s hair, sliding his hand through to watch Quentin’s eyes flutter. He holds, with his cock deep in Quentin’s mouth, before closing his fist carefully, tugging on the hair in his hand. Quentin _keens,_ soft, muffled by the cock in his mouth and Eliot grins. “Look at you being so good for me. Think you can take more, my sweet little one? Think you can take all of Daddy’s dick?”

He can’t, really, hasn’t been able to anyway. Quentin’s skills in dick-sucking lie in rhythm and enthusiasm, not in deepthroating. But he’s just pliant and blissed out enough to try, maybe, and Eliot wants– wants to be _inside of him,_ so deep inside that he never has to come out again. Quentin makes an eager little sound, pulling forward against Eliot’s grip in his hair like he can just impale himself on cock and have that work out in his favor. With a soft chuckle, Eliot guides him back, until he’s just suckling softly at the head of Eliot’s dick. 

“Let Daddy help you, little one,” Eliot murmurs, and it’s– it’s so fucking hot, that Quentin will roll with this, sometimes, that he’ll even sell it, let Eliot feel it, how soft and sweet and needy he’ll let himself get, just– _just for me,_ Eliot thinks, feeling a kind of pent-up wildness in his heart. _Only for me._

“Yes, please,” Quentin whispers, pulling back to speak so Eliot’s dick falls from his mouth. Tutting, Eliot takes it in hand again, guiding it back to Quentin’s mouth, rubbing against his open lips and eager tongue.

“Open,” Eliot instructs, and Quentin obeys, tipping his head back into Eliot’s palm, letting his mouth fall open. “Breathe through your nose, and move if you need too,” Eliot pants, changing the hold he has on Quentin’s head so he’s not holding him in place, just– just holding him. Trusting Quentin to stay still unless he needs to pull off.

Oh and what a fucking sight, the stretch of Eliot’s dick sliding into Q’s pretty pink mouth as Quentin looks up at him with bright, trusting eyes. Oh, the sight alone is enough to have pleasure curling in Eliot’s balls, to say nothing of the feel of it, the slide in, in, in, until he meets the resistance at the back of Q’s throat. Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing changes, working through the first of the gag reflex.

“Oh, you’re doing _so well,_” Eliot murmurs, and watches Quentin flush with the praise, the act, the entire overwhelmed mess he must be feeling right now. _My beautiful little witch,_ Eliot thinks wildly, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the hinge of Quentin’s jaw. A cautious thrust of his hips and he slides forward just a little more, into the _tight wet squeeze_ of Quentin’s throat. “Oh, _so good,_ baby.”

Pulling out carefully, he means to let Quentin catch his breath, but Quentin follows him, eager mouth and hot needy eyes. “_More,_” Quentin begs, eyes ficking desperately from Eliot’s cock to his face. “Please– Let me have it. Help me take it.”

A sharp spike of arousal shoots through Eliot, because this is just everything, everything Eliot’s ever wanted. “You can, you will, you’re doing so good,” He pants, half rote with it as he guides Quentin back onto his dick.

They find a rhythm, and it’s– It’s pushing Q, it is, he’s struggling to take it, struggling to breathe, but he so clearly wants to be pushed it’s melting Eliot’s brain down his spine. _How did I get so lucky?_ he wonders, for the one millionth time, looking down at the beautiful boy working Eliot’s cock into his throat. _Oh little witch, what did I do to get to have you?_

“Do you want to pull off when I come?” Eliot has the presence of mind to ask, once the heat curling in his balls begins to draw impossibly tight. In response, Quentin closes his eyes and pushes imperceptibly forward, with most of Eliot’s cock in his mouth, down his throat. And Jesus, oh fucking hell, what is Eliot supposed to do besides let it crest, follow the threads of pleasure until he’s coming so far down Quentin’s throat he probably can’t even taste it. It’s a bright, iridescent moment of pleasure, and he rides it as long as he can, working the aftershocks into Quentin’s eager mouth.

“You’re incredible,” Eliot breathes, the moment he’s come back to himself, sliding down to the floor to gather Quentin into his arms. “You take my breath away, I can’t believe that you’re mine.”

“Yours,” Quentin repeats, letting Eliot tug him up into his lap, into a hungry, deep kiss. Even in that single word, Quentin’s voice sounds wrecked, and Eliot shivers all over.

“What can I do for you, baby?” Eliot murmurs, reaching down between them to get his hand on Quentin’s cock, hard in his pants. “I can return the favor, or– anything, anything you want.”

“Just touch me,” Quentin moans, licking at Eliot’s mouth between words. “Kiss me, touch me, tell me I’m y–yours.”

“You’re mine, and I love you so much, little witch,” Eliot whispers, working his hand into the fly of Quentin’s jeans. Q’s so hard, and so responsive, like really all he wants in the world is to sit in Eliot’s lap on his office floor and be kissed and loved and touched until he falls apart.

And well, Eliot can do that. Wants to do that. Wants to do nothing but that, forever maybe, but definitely for as long as he can get away with. When Quentin comes, it’s with a soft sob and Eliot’s name on his lips. 

“Let me take you home,” Eliot whispers into Quentin’s hair, and fuck it, maybe it was three in the afternoon and maybe their energy should be spent doing other things. Eliot can’t bring himself to care. He wants to spend the rest of the night in the only hedonism he allows himself these days, Quentin’s soft skin and cool sheets and good food. 

“Yes, please,” Quentin murmurs, nosing against Eliot’s throat. Eliot smiles and just– loves him. Loves him entirely, with his whole wild heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is calm before the storm, the gang robs a Library, and faces a god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please not that the warnings for canon-typical violence are applicable to this chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who's been commenting, it means the world to me <3

War Council 2.0 includes only Harriet and Joaquin this time, and is held in Eliot’s safehouse. Which is good, because the ordeal of finding neutral ground was a pain in the ass that Eliot couldn’t be fucked to go through a second time.

“We need to move on Reynard, now. We don’t have time to look for the book on killing a god, we need something actionable,” Joaquin says, pacing around the library of the safe house. “I heard from a contact in LA this morning that one of the most prominent covens on the west coast was found dead last night, hearts ripped out. This is a big, well organized coven, mind you, not the kind that would be fucking with Goddess worship.”

This was news to Eliot, and his stomach sinks with it. “So he’s escalating. You’re right, we’re running out of time.”

“We think we could lure him with goddess omens,” Julia muses. “Lightning, storms, those kinds of things. Margo and Q think he’s _trying_ to get Persephone’s attention, and if we make it seem like she’s turned up somewhere, he’ll come.”

“We just need a way to kill him when he does,” Eliot extrapolates, grimacing. “And that we don’t have. Whatever spells might exist are trapped on the poison world, according to Harriet. And while breaking into the _Library_ might be possible, breaking into the poison world will get us all very dead, very fast. So– question for the room: how do we kill a god?”

A few moments of thoughtful silence, and then Quentin asks cautiously, “What about a Leo blade?”

“A what?” 

“The Leo Blade. From _The Girl Who Told Time._ Martin Chatwin commissioned it, it’s supposed to be powerful enough to tear through the fabric of magic itself. Strong enough to kill a god,” Quentin’s face sparks with excitement, and Eliot has to bite down on his lip to stop from grinning at his excitable little nerd. “Listen, we know there’s other worlds, right, and we know Fillory is real. If Fillory’s real– then maybe the books aren’t just fiction. Maybe they’re a record, and maybe the blade is real too.”

[[He’s right, the Chatwins were real. The Library has the original blade in their artifact collection.]] Harriet’s expression was thoughtful, curious. [[Easier to get into than the poison room. And safer.]]

“Alright. So we’re going to rob a magical item from a group of Facist Librarians, in order to kill a god. What could possibly go wrong,” Joaquin summarizes, and Eliot gives him a weak smile. “One problem though: getting into the Library without a Library card. You know they’re not going to let any hedge witches just wander through.”

“I might be able to help,” Kady says hesitantly, shrugging one shoulder. “I know a guy. Traveler. He was in the same year as Julia and me at Brakebills. We were kind of on rough terms for a while, but we sorted our shit out. I might be able to call in a favor, get him to travel us in.”

“Okay, that would make shit a lot easier,” Margo agrees. “I could maybe portal us in but there would be no way in hell they wouldn’t know we were there. Traveler’s access magic differently, like it’s in their blood or some shit. It’s a lot stealther than us just jumping in with our dicks in our hands.”

[[I would take you into the artifact room myself, but I’m in enough hot water with the Library as it is.]] Harriet signs, shooting Eliot an apologetic look.

“That’s fine, just give us any information you can, my coven handle will the heist.” Eliot waves his hands dismissively. “Can you two handle the omens? Pick a place and get everything set up so once we have the blade we can move on Reynard.”

“Of course. That’s the easy job” Joaquin agrees, and Harriet nods.

“There’s only one problem. The Leo Blade can only be wielded by a master magician,” Quentin says quietly, shooting Eliot an apologetic look. “I don’t think any of us hedges qualify. Um. El? Or maybe Julia?”

“I could call in a favor, with the most powerful Magician I know,” Julia says, making a face. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Eliot looks at Quentin curiously, as confusion turns to comprehension and then to something bitter like dread. “It’s fucking Alice, isn’t it?”

“She’s the most powerful Magician I know,” Julia says apologetically, and Eliot burns with curiosity.

“Alice?”

“Alice Quinn,” Julia explains, and Margo makes a little sound of comprehension.

“Oh, I remember hearing about her as we were graduating Brakebills. Made a big splash there didn’t she? Figured out something about the Niffin paradoxes?”

“I don’t remember that,” Eliot protests, and Margo gives him a patient look.

“Eliot, honey, you were so off your tit it’s amazing you managed to remember _anything_ you learned in third year.”

“Anyway,” Julia cuts in delicately. “I think if anyone we know is going to be powerful enough to wield the blade, it’s Alice. She owes me a favor, anyway, she’s a Physical Kid and needed access to the Knowledge library for a bunch of her research.”

“Great, so favors-pending, we have a plan,” Margo says, clapping her hands together. “Touch back in once we see how much pull you fuckers have?”

Quentin’s still looking surly, as the rest of the group filters out of the room. Julia gives a tentative look at him, and then at Eliot and mouth _sorry._

“So what beef do you have with a Brakebills Magician,” Eliot asks curiously, sliding his arms around Quentin’s waist. “Seeing as you did not, in fact, go to Brakebills.”

“She’s kind of– someone I slept with?” Quentin mutters, half a question, like he’s not entirely sure if the title fits.

“Julia’s Master Magician friend is your ex?”

“Ex is a strong word. She was at a party Julia threw one summer during grad school, we hooked up, and then she never answered any of my calls. Apparently, because she was a Magician, and had better things to do than deal with a Columbia grad student. I can’t really blame her.” Quentin sighs, and whatever bitterness is left from this years-old encounter seems to fade to a vague ache.

“Her loss,” Eliot mutters, because well. Whatever Alice Quinn was, powerful, talented, a research expert– if she couldn’t see how special Quentin was, how worth her time and attention he was even without magic, then she was clearly missing something important. And all the better for Eliot, in the end.

“My gain,” Quentin murmurs, dropping his head onto Eliot’s chest.

“So. Want to help me plan a heist?” Eliot murmurs, into Quentin’s hair, and he can feel Quentin’s laughter resonate through his body.

“Oh boy, do I.”

__

Eliot's done a lot of stupid things in his life, up to and including scamming hedge covens and heroin. It's possible that he's never done anything as stupid as steal from The Library of the Neitherlands.

And somehow he seems to have convinced six other perfectly reasonable people to go along with it. Q was a given, it was his idea to begin with, and Margo would pretty much followed Eliot into whatever shit he got himself into, albeit with a lot of vicious complaining. But Julia and Kady were not only going along with it, but they had persuaded several other perfectly reasonable people to throw in with them.

Well, the jury's still out on how reasonable Penny is. But he does at least seem willing to tag along once it was clear they were trying to protect Kady.

They meet in the safehouse to hash out a plan, which begins with Penny travelling them to the Neitherlands. Once there, four of them collaborate to cast a beacon spell on the Earth Fountain, so Penny have a point of orientation in the Neitherlands. Then they split into two groups: Julia, Kady, and Penny causing a distraction in the main stacks while Alice, Margo, Quentin and Eliot break into the artifacts room. They’ll meet up at the card catalogue and Penny will travel them out.

It’s far from a fool-proof plan. One might go so far as to call it a foolish plan.

But it’s what they had. Alice’s phosophmancy should be able to make them invisible inside the library but that left the others to deal with actually getting the blade, with the high chance that none of them could touch it. Julia and Kady would be with Penny, who could get them out in an emergency, but he could only travel to the Earth fountain, which would mean stranding the other team and relying only on Margo’s portals to get them out.

It was insane. The chances of them all coming back alive felt astronomical. Every sense of self-preservation and protectiveness Eliot had spent 4 years cultivating was saying they were doomed to fail. But another coven had died while they were collecting their team, in Denver, Colorado of all places. There was no more time. They have to move tomorrow. 

Now, they have the calm before the storm. Margo declares her intention to “rub one out, pop an ambien and sleep for 10 hours.” Alice makes a pinched face and says something about checking in with her research assistant and clicks her way out of the room without looking a Q. Penny just fucks off, but Eliot is getting the sense that might just be his vibe. Which leaves– the best bitches.

“I’m going to take Kady back with me to Brooklyn,” Julia tells them, walking over to give Quentin’s shoulder a familiar squeeze. “I don’t– We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, and I don’t want her to spend tonight alone, sleeping on a couch.”

“I was going to go home with El anyway,” Quentin says, smiling at her. Warmth spreads through Eliot’s stomach like liquid at the easiness of it, how glad he is that Quentin feels comfortable in his space. Then a little smirk spreads across Quentin’s face, and he says, “Just remember, ‘wrap it before you strap it’ right, Jules?”

“Okay, fuck off,” She laughs, kissing his cheek and turning to head towards the door.

“Don’t leave your dildos in the dishwasher again!” Q calls after her, to which Julia replies only with a middle finger over her shoulder. 

“She actually did that once?” Eliot asks, quietly, as Quentin stuffs his notebook back in his messenger bag.

“Oh yeah, bright purple cock just sitting there, like this big.” Quentin gestures with his hands, presumably indicating a decently sized fake dick, and Eliot snorts. 

Burying his nose in the hair at Q’s temple, he presses a kiss there fondly and murmurs, low enough so only Q can hear, “Did you bond over being size queens?”

“Jesus, Eliot,” Quentin mutters, ducking away and flushing. But he turns back into Eliot side, which means no harm done. “You’re the worst.”

They cook pasta barefoot in the kitchen of Eliot’s loft, sharing space with quiet ease. Which mostly means Eliot cooks and Quentin hands him things, but it’s nice. There’s an intimacy to this, the act of preparing a meal together, that leaves Eliot feeling a little tender, a little raw, incredibly protective and very fond. If they stand in the kitchen just holding each other, lost in their own thoughts and worries while the sauce cooks down, no one ever has to know. They eat in the kitchen, too, Quentin sitting on the counter with a bowl of cheesy tomatoes and treccioni in his hand, Eliot leaning against his side. 

“Shower with me?” Eliot asks, after they finish washing up, trailing his fingers under the back of Quentin’s button-up to play with the waistband of his jeans. 

The look Quentin gives him is shyly curious. “You know, I’ve never actually done that before? It always seemed– impractical somehow. Like you think it’s going to be sexy and then it’s just claustrophobic and kind of cold.”

Eliot bites his lip, trying not to laugh, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Okay, I can tell by your face that you know I’m over thinking this so just... shut up.”

“I promise I won’t leave you cold and lonely in the shower,” Eliot says gently, to which Quentin sticks his tongue out. He does allow himself to be cajoled into it though, so Eliot counts that as a win.

It is a little awkward at first, just because Quentin’s a little awkward about it, the two of them standing naked in the en-suite bathroom, letting the shower warm up while they kiss lazily. It’s an excellent excuse for Eliot to get his hands on Q’s pert little ass, which is never something he’ll complain about. Nor is the way Q keeps pushing up onto his toes through the kiss, little rocking motions making him seem desperately hungry.

“The purpose of this shower really is to get clean,” Eliot breathes, pulling back as steam begins to fill the room, and Quentin snorts.

“You sure about that?”

Well. “One of the purposes,” he amends, and revels in the sound of Quentin’s laughter. 

He guides Quentin under the spray once they step inside. “Too hot?” he asks gently, as Q tips his head back into the spray, getting his hair wet. Eliot reaches up to run his fingers through the strands, working the water into them.

“No, it’s fine,” Quentin murmurs, then opens his eyes. “I like to basically boil myself when I shower, so.”

“Good to know,” Eliot chuckles, nudging Q to swap places with him so he can get his own hair wet. When he looks back at Quentin, he finds Q watching him, a mix of heat and fascination on his face.

“My, my, little witch. It’s like you’ve never seen a naked man before,” he teases, affecting a southern belle accent, to which Q gives a little half smile and rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I’m scandalized,” Quentin agrees, and then reaches up, brushing his fingers against Eliot’s chest. “No, it’s just. The water makes your chest hair darker. I noticed in Greece, when we were swimming. I– I don’t know.”

“You like it,” Eliot fills in, based on the heat in Quentin’s gaze, the way his fingers stretch against Eliot’s breast bone, ruffling through the hair there.

“I like it,” Quentin agrees, stepping forward until he’s close enough to drop his head, press a kiss over the center of Eliot’s chest. 

Heat flares low in Eliot’s belly, the slow start of pleasure, and he sighs with it. Some day he should maybe take a look at why having his masculinity validated is so desperately erotic to him, but that day can be after they deal with the current crisis. Instead he nudges Q’s face up, so he can lean in and kiss him, sweet and hot in the steam of the shower. Quentin’s stubble scrapes against his lips, and that heat flares just a little brighter.

Q looks a little dazed when he pulls back, and Eliot grins, asks “Can I wash your hair?”

“I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a euphemism or not, but please, yes.”

“Not a euphemism,” Eliot laughs, reaching over to snag a bottle of shampoo from the ledge of the shower. It’s the citrusy one he keeps here for Q, because Eliot likes the smell of it in his hair and Quentin honestly couldn’t care less. What he does like, though, is getting his hair played with, and Eliot knows this very well. 

A happy little moan escapes Quentin’s pretty pink lips as Eliot digs his fingers lightly into his scalp. Q’s arms loop around his waist, hands knotting together at the base of Eliot’s spine, resting on the curve of his ass. Oh, but he’s so lovely, the most beautiful thing, even in the dim light of the shower, as his eyes flutter shut.

“We should do this more,” Eliot murmurs, rubbing his fingers with purpose at the tense muscles at the base of Q’s skull.

“I’m not going to argue, but that feels extremely selfish somehow,” Quentin replies, going progressively more boneless as Eliot works his hands through the long strands of Quentin’s hair.

“Turn,” he instructs, and they spin together like a slow dance, not separating at all as Eliot cups the back of Q’s skull and guides his head under the water. “I like taking care of you. It makes me feel good.”

“Mmm, you’re really good at it,” Quentin hums, as Eliot carefully strokes the water back off his forehead. 

“You take care of me too,” Eliot points out, because it’s true. It’s really, really true, more than anyone in his life ever has, besides Margo. Quentin stands at his side and has his back, offers vulnerability and accepts it with open arms and an open heart. Q does his best to make sure Eliot sleeps and eats, and lets Eliot do the same for him. Quentin lets himself be the thing Eliot draws strength from, and doesn’t even notice that he makes Eliot braver. They work, they really work, in a way that Eliot’s never known before. 

“I try,” Quentin agrees, tipping his head forward again to rest in the center of Eliot’s collarbones, tucked just under his chin. 

It’s easy to loop his arms around Quetin’s shoulders, hold him close and hug him tight. He’s the perfect size for it, to wrap up and _hold_ like something precious. Because he _is._

“Conditioner,” Eliot prompts, after a few moments of warm closeness in the steam of the shower. Q makes a little face, adorably grumpy, but lets Eliot nudge him back. His eyes flutter shut again as Eliot starts smoothing the conditioner through his hair. 

“I never do this,” Quentin admits, and Eliot snorts.

“You’re not exactly at risk for over-washing your hair, I think that’s fine. I’m just spoiling you.”

“Mmm, I feel spoilt.”

“You say that now, but I’m going to make you wash mine in a minute, and I’m going to be _so bossy about it_. Curly hair is much more complicated.”

Q’s eyes flicker open, reaching up curiously to twist one of the loose curls that have come free near Eliot’s face around his finger. “Tell me how?”

So Eliot does, turns around in the shower and tips his head back so Quentin can reach, walks him through the process of smoothing conditioner into the curls first and working out the tangles, then working the special shampoo into his scalp. Quentin’s fingers are strong and gentle, and Eliot lets himself relax into it, lets _himself_ feel a little spoilt. Following instruction comes easily to Q, and he’s attentive and careful, rinsing and conditioning Eliot’s hair to his exact specifications.

“You do this every day?” Quentin asks, dubious, and Eliot laughs.

“I don’t wash my hair every day. But when I do, yes.”

“Jesus, I would literally never manage this, even when I’m not actively having an episode.”

“Then you would be very, very frizzy,” Eliot says matter of factly, turning around to kiss the tip of Quentin’s nose. It makes him giggle, which is as good an excuse as any to back him into the wall of the shower and kiss him. 

The water between them makes this a wholly new and exciting experience, letting their bodies slide together as easily as their mouths. Pressed together in the wetness, Eliot can feel it against his thigh when Quentin starts to get hard. 

“Hmm, if you’ve never showered with someone, then you’ve never been blown in the shower before,” Eliot hums thoughtfully, pulling away with a warm slick sound that makes heat clench in his groin. 

“Oh, um. No, I haven’t?” Quentin replies, half a question, and Eliot grins sharply. He loves finding firsts he can give to Q, finding new ways to make him _Eliot’s._

“Well, then. Let’s fix that.”

The plastic of the bathtub is warm and hard when Eliot slides down onto his knees, and okay. Maybe he’s cresting the hill towards 30 a lot sooner than he’d like to admit, and maybe his body’s going to complain about this before long, but it’s worth it. It’s worth if for the way Quentin’s eyes go wide and hopeful, and oh, maybe they don’t do this enough. Maybe Eliot’s falling down on the job, because Quentin’s so eager with his mouth on Eliot’s cock that half the time they don’t manage the reverse. 

And that was just a crime, because Quentin getting his dick sucked was a beautiful sight. Even with the wonkiness of the angle and the steam filled air, Eliot just wants to watch him. His hands flail around a little, trying to find something to hold on to in the slipperiness of the shower, and Eliot catches one of them, guides it to his shoulder so Quentin has something to grip on to. 

“Fuck, Eliot, your _mouth,_” Quentin moans, fingers digging into Eliot’s skin. Eliot hums, appreciative, and Quentin’s hips buck. “Shit, sorry.”

Eliot pulls off, working his hand steady over Quentin’s cock while he gives him an assessing look. “It’s okay, baby. Try to be good, though, okay?”

“I’ll try, I’ll try, please,” he babbles, and Eliot nods, taking the head of Q’s cock back into his mouth. It’s a good stretch, a pleasant ache settling into his jaw, as Eliot works his tongue against the tip of Quentin’s dick. Above him, Q swears, but keeps his hips steady. 

Struck with sudden inspiration, Eliot pulls off again, nodding towards the collection of bottles on the side of the shower. “Hand me the lube?”

“Oh my god, of course you keep lube in the shower,” Quentin laughs, but finds the bottle easily enough.

Eliot takes it with a salacious grin. “What kind of hedonist do you take me for, baby?”

For just a moment, Quentin’s eyes go warm and fond. “A sober, monogamous one?”

Well. He’s not wrong. “You know, it’s probably good that we’re dealing with Perseophone and not Bacchus. I must be such a disappointment to him.”

“Eliot, honey, baby, sweetheart,” Quentin says, carefully smoothing his hand over Eliot’s hair and down his neck to grip his shoulder. “Please, please go back to sucking my dick.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Eliot purrs, then guides Q’s right leg up drape over his shoulder. “Tell me if you start to feel unstable, okay?”

Quentin nods, eagerly, and Eliot gets back to work. It takes a bit of coordination, holding Q’s dick steady with his left hand as he works the silicon lube between the fingers of his right. But Eliot’s nothing if not dedicated, and he’s learned to multitask pretty well in this particular area. One, then two fingers in, and Eliot can curl his hand just right, find the perfect angle to work Quentin’s prostate.

“Oh, _fuck, fuck_,” Quentin swears above him, muscles going taught with the effort of not fucking forward into Eliot’s mouth. He ends up driving back instead, but that’s fine, Eliot can let him get away with that. 

He lets himself fall into a rhythm with it, keeping his mouth working on Quentin’s cock, rubbing hard up inside him with his fingers. Less focused on _fucking_ him, Eliot sets himself instead to driving Quentin crazy with constant stimulation to his prostate. Quentin’s delightfully sensitive here, body built just right to _love_ this feeling, and Eliot lets him ride it, lets it build in him until he’s right on the edge.

Then he pulls off. 

“Eliot, _please,_” Quentin sobs, and Eliot smiles up at him.

“Do you think you’ll be able to come again tonight?”

“I– What?”

Eliot smiles at him patiently, lovingly. “I’ll let you come now, but if you do I want to be able to make you come later, on my cock. Will you be able to?”

“Yes? Yeah. I think so? If I have a little bit of time...”

“Time we can manage,” Eliot agrees, rubbing his fingers lazily up into Q’s prostate just to watch his eyes flicker. “Feel good?”

“_So good_, oh my god,” Quentin whines, and Eliot grins. 

“I’m going to work you through this one. It might end up being kind of intense,” Eliot warns, and at Quentin’s bewildered look, Eliot just decides to go for it. Either he’ll find out, or he won’t.

Sliding his mouth back down Q’s dick, Eliot focuses most of his attention on his fingers, lets Quentin’s cock work shallowly in his mouth. He’s not on the edge of coming anymore, but he’s close, and Eliot pushes him, working his fingers diligently. A sharp cry of _“Eliot, god!”_ is all the warning he gets before Quentin starts to come. Eliot pulls back, hand taking over will he rubs at inside Q and watches his eyes roll back as he comes on Eliot’s neck and chest, thinner and wetter and _more_ than usual. It _lasts,_ and by the time he’s fully spent he’s practically shaking.

Eliot catches him before his knees give out, sliding his fingers out carefully and standing so he can wrap Q up in his arms.

“Oh my god, _what_,” Quentin mutters, clinging, and Eliot laughs. “What just happened?”

“Anatomy lessons later. Prostate orgasms can feel different.”

“I feel like jelly,” Quentin mutters, and Eliot tips his smile into Quentin’s neck, holding him close until he can find his feet. Then Eliot gets them both rinsed off, and shuts the shower off. 

Quentin’s still loose-limbed and clingy post orgasm, leans into Eliot as they step out of the shower. It’s fine, it’s more than fine, Eliot will never complain about getting to take care of him. He loops a towel over Q’s head, covering his face and making him chuff out a laugh, and then carefully scrunches his hair dry in the towel. He knows he’s taking way more care against breakage and split-ends than Quentin himself would, but that’s fine. The flame of arousal has simmered down into something tender and gleaming, banked heat which makes everything in Eliot’s brain feel possessive and protective and fond.

“Trust me?” Eliot murmurs, before he’s even really completed the thought, and Quentin nods immediately.

“Yes.”

It feels like magic. 

Fitting his hands into the curve of Quentin’s skinny waist, Eliot turns him and gently boosts him up to sitting on the counter next to the sink. He spreads his legs easily, eagerly, like that’s the point of this, like he didn’t just have his prostate milked in the shower a minute ago. Oh, Eliot’s so desperately, fucking helplessly in love with him, his little witch who’s just the right mix of submissive and slutty. 

It would be a waste of an opportunity not to step up between his legs, though. Eliot grins at him, wiggles his eyebrows a little because it makes Q blush and grin, and then reaches next to him for his shave kit. 

Quentin seems to get the message immediately, and if he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. He watches curiously as Eliot takes out the straight razor and oil, brush and cream. 

“Have you ever had a straight razor shave before?” he asks, setting up the strop on the rack next to the sink. The motion of running the blade over the leather strop is easy and familiar, something he’s done literally hundreds of times, but he feels Q’s eyes on him the whole time.

“No, never. I–” Quentin gives a little laugh, and out of the corner of his eye, Eliot can see him duck his head. “Maybe I saw Sweeny Todd too many times, but it always kind of intimidated me. And, well. I don’t have the best track record with normal razors, so... Didn’t seem like a good purchase to make.”

That gives Eliot pause, and he stops what he’s doing, flipping the razor closed and setting it aside. “Okay,” he says gently, placing his hands on Q’s hips, nowhere near the blade, thumbs brushing softly against Q’s skin. “Nevermind.”

“No, I– I don't mean ‘no’ like ‘stop’,” Quentin protests, reaching over to pick up the razor and holding it out to Eliot. “I meant it, I trust you. Please, El, whatever you were going to do... I want it.”

It’s overwhelming, it sticks in his throat and makes his eyes hurt, the enormity of that trust. Eliot tips his head forward, until his forehead is touching Q’s, damp hair against wet curls. “I love you,” he whispers, because if he doesn’t he might fall apart right here, and that’s just not conducive to the atmosphere he’s trying to cultivate. 

Their fingers drag together when he takes the blade from Quentin’s hand, and considering he just had his fingers _inside Q’s body_, there’s no reason for the touch to feel that intimate. It does anyway.

This is nothing if not an exercise in _taking care_, in every area. He’s careful, rubbing the shave oil onto his palms then transferring it to Quentin’s face. Careful, applying the cream to Q’s skin and working it into a lather with the brush. It makes Quentin giggly, and Eliot has to keep reminding him not to smile. He takes care in preparing the blade, feels the solid familiar weight of it in his hand. 

“Try not to move too much,” he murmurs, and at Quentin’s soft sound of agreement, Eliot reaches out with the blade. 

He’s far too absorbed with being careful to talk, at first, taking care to gently stretch Q’s skin and run the blade in the direction following the grain of his stubble. The room is quiet enough that Eliot can hear the sound of the razor scraping over skin, the careful, slow breaths Quentin’s taking. He starts off with his eyes closed, like that’s going to help him remember not to move, but it doesn’t last. By the time one cheek is done, Quentin’s eyes are open and fixed on Eliot. 

And oh, is he fixed. This was entirely a spur of the moment decision, not something Eliot would have thought of to plan ahead, but it really seems to be doing something for Q. His big brown eyes have gone calm and open, when Eliot looks up to check in, settling with a stillness in him that Eliot associates with _really_ good sex. And fuck, but doesn’t it make sense? Quentin, whose biggest kinks all boil down to _‘take care of me’_ and _‘tell me what to do’_, of course this would work for him. Eliot smiles at him, big and helpless, and Quentin smiles back with his eyes. Not with his mouth, though, because _Eliot told him not too._

“You’re doing so good,” Eliot praises, and watches another little bit of Q’s brain go quiet. 

He finishes the other cheek, and moves on carefully to Quentin’s lip and chin, teasing him lightly as he pushes up Q’s nose. He gets an eye roll, and is sure he’d get a stuck-out-tongue too, except Quentin’s being _so good._

“Now the scary bit,” Eliot murmurs, tipping Q’s chin up so the vulnerable expanse of his neck is exposed. 

“I trust you,” Quentin repeats, and Eliot grabs onto it, uses it to steady himself. Carefully, drags the blade over the sensitive skin on Quentin’s neck. It makes him shiver, but Eliot had expected it to, pulls the blade back until the involuntary motion passes.

“Sorry,” Quentin whispers, and Eliot’s heart throbs with affection.

“No, darling, you’re fine,” he promises, and presses the blade back onto his skin. 

He’s careful but quick, working over the expanse of Quentin’s throat with practiced ease. It’s been a while since he had any cause to shave anyone other than himself, but it’s an easy skill to transfer. Q’s starting to get hard again by the time he’s done the first pass, despite his own reservations, and Eliot smiles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It tastes kind of like soap, and Eliot does not care.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, checking in, and Quentin blinks a little, like coming out of a trance. 

“Good,” he murmurs, and tightens his thighs a little around Eliot’s hips. “I like this.”

“I can tell,” Eliot agrees, amused. “Usually we’d do a second pass going against the grain, but we can stop now if you want to be done.”

“I don’t want to be done,” Quentin chokes out, then kind of goes against his own point by tipping his head forward to rest in the center of Eliot’s chest. Eliot gives him a moment to collect himself, and that’s all he needs, straighten up and meeting Eliot’s eyes. “Okay.”

“Hey, Q,” Eliot says thoughtfully, as he carefully wipes off Q’s face, and starts reapplying the shaving cream. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Hm?” 

“I need you to live, tomorrow.” Eliot gets the words out before they choke him, incredibly proud of the fact that his hands aren’t shaking even a little bit. “If it’s ‘die trying to get the blade’ or ‘run away without it’, please run away. Just– make sure you come back tomorrow.”

“I mean. I’ll do my best–”

“No,” Eliot cuts him off, because he _knows_ Quentin. Knows how he’ll take to a mission. “I don’t care, if it’s cut and run or take a stupid risk, _run._ We can find another way if we have to, but I need you to be here to do that with me. Promise me, Quentin.”

Maybe it should be a ridiculous image, Quentin’s serious expression with shaving cream all over half of it, but Eliot’s never felt more deadly serious in his life. “I promise. Short of leaving you behind, because I’m _not_ going to do that, sweetheart. I’m just not.”

Well, that’ll do, Eliot supposes. You take what you can get.

The second pass with the blade is faster, but requiring more care as he goes against the grain of Quentin’s beard. Q’s still quiet, still watchful and trusting, but at some point he reached out to hold onto Eliot’s waist, and hasn’t let go since. Eliot can’t stop being aware of his hands, burning like brands into his skin. When he tips Q’s chin up again, there’s a soft exhale, and Quentin’s eyes flutter shut. 

“Almost done,” he murmurs, and a little involuntary sound escapes Q, somewhere between a whine and a hum. 

The final pass of the razor over the curve of Q’s jaw feels like the sealing of an accord somehow, like the promises between them have been manifested and tied into this ritual. Quentin blinks, eyes hazy and cock hard, and oh, a part of Eliot just wants to _sink inside him_ right now.

A bigger part wants to take care of him, though, that banked fire still burning in Eliot’s belly. With tender hands, he wipes the excess cream away, wipes down his face with a cool cloth. Soothing aftershave cream, the expensive kind Eliot likes for himself, glides over Quentin’s skin under Eliot’s hands. Q’s sensitive from the closeness of the shave and how worked up he is, leaning into Eliot’s palms and shivering, fingers tightening against Eliot’s hips.

“Perfect,” Eliot concludes, inspecting the overall shave with a critical eye, before meeting Quentin’s gaze. Q’s smile, dimples in soft, freshly shaven cheeks, is all he could have asked for.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” Q asks, pushing forward to brush the tip of his nose against Eliot’s chin.

“Well, I was thinking about it. Didn’t want to make assumptions,” Eliot teases, tipping down to brush their noses together.

“I think you should,” Quentin whispers, breath hot on Eliot’s lips, nuzzling in close and just _begging_ for a kiss with his whole damn body. A kiss he is more than capable of taking, but _oh_, he’s working himself up in the asking.

“You think so?” Eliot muses, pressing his lips high up on Q’s cheek bone, leaving a soft trail of kisses across the smooth skin down to the corner of his mouth. “Well, that’s two in favor.”

“Majority ru–” Quentin doesn’t get the words out before Eliot kisses him silent.

Seized by an idea, Eliot whispers, “Wrap your legs around me,” and Quentin does, automatic and easy. Eliot gets his hands down around Quentin’s thighs, and then _lifts._ Quentin gasps, arms flying up around Eliot’s shoulders, and Eliot grins. He wouldn’t be strong enough to do this, really, except telekinesis is as easy as breathing and can support most of Q’s weight.

“_Fuck, Eliot_,” Quentin swears, as Eliot carries him out of the bathroom to lower him gently onto the bed. “That’s _so_– How do people have sex without magic?”

“They probably have to actually work out,” Eliot chuckles, delighted at Q’s little eye roll. 

“This is _better_,” Quentin insists, heels digging into the top of Eliot’s ass. “You’re so _hot._”

It’s a desperate, almost offended little whine, and Eliot wants to laugh, but he wants to be inside Q more. “Want some more magic?” Eliot asks, like there’s any chance Quentin’s going to say no.

“Yes, _please_,” Quentin breathes, then promptly whines when Eliot goes to pull away. Shushing him with a kiss, Eliot sits back until he’s kneeling between Quentin’s spread thighs, his lovely little witch spread out before him like a feast. 

“Watch,” Eliot instructs, holding up his right hand. Quentin does as he’s told, pushing up on his elbows so he can study Eliot’s hand. Flattening his palm parallel to the bed, he draws his index and middle fingers up into a curl, and then rolls his hand onto its side, curling his fingers into an extended twist. Bringing his hand down, he finishes the tut by stroking his thumb across Q’s pubic bone.

Quentin gaps, arching his back a little at the unfamiliar feeling of being slicked up inside, where he’s already worked warm and loose. “Oh_ fuck_.”

“Westheimer 3,” Eliot explains, trying not to sound too smug, but it’s hard when Q’s looking at him like that. “I don’t usually like to use magic instead of manual prep because it’s not– Well. It’s more effective to use fingers and–”

“And you have a _huge dick?_” Quentin giggles, a little silly, hands reaching up to get his hands on Eliot’s shoulders, pull and tug until Eliot gives in and settles against his body. “I know that already. Why don’t you _get it in me?_”

“Impatient,” Eliot acuses, fondly.

“Eliot, you just spent _30 minutes shaving me_, telling me how good I am– and then you _carried me to bed._ I don’t care if I’ve already come, I’m _losing my mind._”

“Can’t have that,” Eliot agrees, absently, really way more preoccupied with sitting back to get at his own dick. He’d flagged a little since the shower, but everything was just _too much_ for his erection to go all the way down, that banked heat in his belly burning back brightly the moment he gets a hand on himself. A couple strokes and he’s good to go, nudging between Q’s legs were he’s warm and loose from the fingering, slick from the spell.

“Fuck me, _please_,” Quentin whines in that soft, needy way he has which is both kind of for show and also really, really not. 

So Eliot does. 

For all that the sex they have always feels mind-bendingly good, Eliot feels a tinge of desperation he’s never felt before. It’s like– well, it’s like they’re going off to war, like the calm before the storm, one final night in a big bed with soft sheets in a quiet loft. Things were going to change tomorrow, one way or the other, and Eliot fins himself clinging to the simplicity of this moment with the same desperation he clingings to Quentin’s body with. _Please, whatever god is listening, please don’t take this from me_, he begs, and maybe prayer was useless in a world with gods like they had to deal with, but–

The contract, the covenant between the two of them, the promise from Q’s lips as Eliot held a blade to his throat– that Eliot could believe in. That he could give his body to in _worship_, devotion he could act out with his hips and his mouth and his hands. 

“I love you,” he breathes into Q’s open, panting mouth, and feels the reaction pass through Quentin’s body, the way he clenches and arches and rides into it.

“_El_, oh fuck, _I love you, too._”

“Darling,” Eliot pants, and it _sounds_ like worship, the way he’s clinging to Quentin, _making love to him._ “Mine, forever mine.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, arching his hips up to rub his cock against Eliot’s stomach. 

It doesn’t last as long as Eliot wants it too, but nothing could, not when he wants to stop this moment and freeze it in eternity. Inside Q forever, what a way to exist, so close that the boundaries between there bodies are forgotten, Eliot wants _nothing more than this._

Q comes when Eliot does, a cyclical redoubling of pleasure that expands out between them, bodies twisted together as they break apart. Weight be damned, Eliot collapses down on top of Quentin, blanketing his body, feeling every inch of skin. Q makes a soft noise, but it’s not of protest, a simple hum of relaxation and contentment. Lazily, in the molasses-sticky moments of afterglow, Eliot feels Quentin’s arms come up around him, fingers dragging delicately along his spine.

“Thank you,” Quentin whispers, soft, achingly sincere, and Eliot’s not sure what he’s being thanked for, but he’d hazard a guess that it’s not the sex. Or not just the sex.

He draws back, and the motion makes his cock slip out of Quentin’s worked-over hole, makes them both hiss a little at the sensitivity. Still, it frees him up to move, a little, so he repositions to have a better view of Quentin’s face. Carefully, Eliot’s slides his fingers into Quentin’s damp hair, kisses at his smooth, soft cheek.

“Anything, darling,” he promises, and means it. “Anything for you.”

“This is all I want,” Quentin murmurs back, eyes going wet and over-bright. “I don’t want to lose this.”

“We’re going to fight to keep it,” Eliot reminds him, kissing the center of his brow were the worry point is. Q just nods, arms sliding up to hold on to Eliot, hold him close. A sigh and a spell, to get rid of the mess, and Eliot just... lets himself be held for once.

__

Everything about the Neitherlands felt grey. It felt blank. 

It was unlike anything Eliot ever experienced before. It was almost as though light did not refract properly here, like the upper ends of the spectrum were getting lost somehow. They blink into existence next to a fountain, a single ring of dark, depthless water surrounding a statue of a young woman in roman dress. Everything to be seen was fountains, in every direction, beyond what the eye could see. 

“Stay quiet, and stay together,” Penny says, as they all drop hands. “There’s some locals who like to get a little stabby if you make a big fuss.”

“Why didn’t that come up _before we got here_,” Eliot hisses, ducking down a little on instinct. Such was the luck of the tallest person in the group to stand out the most.

“Because if you all _handle your shit_ it shouldn’t be a problem,” Penny gripes back, gesturing at the fountain. “Can we just cast that shit and get going?”

The locator spell was a homebrew of Julia’s. The finer points of it were lost on Eliot, but it was collaborative magic, and complex at that. It required four of them, facing the four different directions from the fountain, to essentially record and implant the relative location in Penny’s mind. With the locator active, and all four of them conscious, Penny would be able to travel back here with perfect accuracy. Eliot was trying not to think about the alternatives to that scenario. 

Eliot, Margo, Alice and Julia take up their places around the fountain, facing out into the vast expanse of the Neitherlands. The spell requires a chant, which amounts repeating ‘find the path’ in latin, arabic and hindi, with a complicated tut pattern accompanying it. It’s collaborative magic at its peak, composed by a meta composition specialist, and the rush of it hits Eliot’s skin in a tingle.

“You sometimes feel like the hedge bitch at the cool kids' table?” Kady mutters to Quentin off to the side, and Eliot can just see Q in his periphery shrugging. 

“They’re hedges too. Or at least Eliot and Margo and Julia are.” 

There’s the temptation to smile, to get distracted by the mere fucking fact of Quentin’s existance, but Eliot makes himself stay on task. He can feel the hairs on his arms stand on end with it, as the magic passes through all of them in a wide arch, growing and collecting and building strength until they release it with a rush. It siphons towards Penny like a physically draw, and Eliot shivers a little at the feeling of magic passing through him, a mere conduit for its power.

“Did it work?” Margo asks, shooting Penny a curious look, and he nods slowly.

“Yeah, it’s weird. I don’t know what anything is, but I feel like I know where it is. I can definitely get us back here.”

“Now we just need to find the access point,” Alice sighs, dusting off her skirts. “Do you think we should stay invisible while we look?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Julia agrees, looking around at the group. “Can you get all of us in?”

“Yes,” Alice says matter of factly. “This is my discipline, and I’m a Master Magician. I’m good at it. You’ll have to stay close to me, but we’ll be fine.”

They all begin to huddle up around Alice, but Quentin seems distracted, staring off into the distance, a weird look of longing on his face. He jumps a little when Eliot nudges him, gives him a sheepish look. “It’s weird to think about but, Fillory’s out there, somewhere. There’s a doorway, here, somewhere, that could just– take us there. My whole life, I dreamed of that.”

“Maybe someday we can find it,” Eliot murmurs, resting a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. Even in the half-dead greyness of this fucked up place, Quentin’s smile feels bright. 

“We keep making plans of things we’re going to do,” He points out, swaying into Eliot’s side. 

“Well, it’s healthy to have goals,” Eliot reasons, sliding his hand into Quentin’s as the group forms around Alice. “Gives you a reason to keep going.”

He doesn’t mean to be pointed about it, but the look Q gives him is knowing. “I promised,” Quentin reminds him, and Eliot swallows. Squeezes his hand, because he’s not going to _lie_, not to Q.

“I know you did. We both did.”

Shuffling around Alice, Eliot can _feel_ the spread of her magic, strong and sharp like glass, like light made physical settle around them. With no way to know where the library hatch might be, they’re forced to check at every fountain, shuffling like a weird 14 legged crab through the desolate landscape. They catch sightings of the locals Penny mention, but Alice’s phosphomancy seems to be holding, keeping them invisible to the hooded and wrapped figures. 

It’s hard to measure the passage of time, the position of the sun doesn’t really seem to be moving, but it feels like hours have gone by in the time it takes them to find a hatch. From there, it’s just: the plan.

“Be smart, everyone,” Margo reminds them all, as Penny, Kady step out of the bubble of Alice’s magic. “Live hero, dead idiot, all that. If things get bad, bail. Otherwise, we meet back by the entrance.”

“Stay alive,” Eliot chims in, and Kady nods grimly. “Alright, sync watches?”

Julia holds up her wrist next to his, snapping her fingers so the watches on their wrist spin down to zero and start ticking up. “If shit hits the fan with you guys, get back to the entrance,” Julia reminds him, stepping out of the bubble of invisibility herself. “If we have to travel out I’ll send you a message.”

“Be safe,” Quentin say, and it’s maybe good Julia can’t see the concern in his eyes.

“You too.”

Eliot, Margo and Quentin tuck in closer to Alice as Kady opens the hatch, ducking through it quickly so the invisible crew can make their way down after. They tumble out in front of an enormous card catalogue, which seems to be where Harriet said it would be. Without a word, the invisible group peel off to the left, while Kady, Julia and Penny go right. They walk in silence, grimly, carefully, Eliot in the middle to more easily cover his height, Margo and Quentin on either side. 

They are, must be, _have to be_ extremely quiet, picking through the shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books. Eliot catches glimpse of spines as they pass, _‘The Book of Grace McKenna’_ and _‘Advancements in Cosmal-Displacement Theory’_ and _‘A Field Guide to Abraxis Guise’_. For all he’s heard and read about the library, the _depth_ of knowledge here is awesome in the truest sense of the word. Full of awe.

_We could redefine the world with the knowledge here_, he thinks with a surge of the same bitterness he’s seen in Harriet time and time again. _We could bring help and hope and magic to so many people._ Beside him, Quentin, who has spent his whole life buried in books and dreaming of a bigger, better world is looking around in wonder. The itch to stop, to look, to _learn_ is evident on his face, but they can’t, they don’t have _time._

They follow Harriet’s instructions though ‘Personal Records: Turn of the 21st Century’ and ‘Interplanetary Research Co-ops’ and ‘Extinct Species A–F’, ducking right down a corridor labeled ‘Research.’ Here, they pass blank, silent door after blank, silent door, presumably into research rooms but truly they could lead into the bottom of the black sea for all Eliot know. Another right, and into another set of stacks labeled ‘Relevant Artifact Texts, Room 3’ and there, at the end: Artifact Room 3– Fillory (Reign of Rupert Chatwin). 

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Quentin whispers, breathless, eyes fixed on the tag above the door, and Eliot reaches over to squeeze his hand.

“Let’s hope it stays a good dream,” Eliot whispers back. Shuffling around Alice, Eliot moves to the front of their little pack, flicking his fingers through the familiar tuts to unlock a door. Harriet had said simply unlocking the door wouldn’t trigger any alarms, but removing the blade from the room will trip a ward. They had to wait to leave this room until exactly 30 minutes have passed, and then _book it_. Eliot glances down at the watch on his wrist as Alice pulls the door open, ushering them all inside. 23 minutes down.

It’s a stroke of luck that the room is empty. They’d prepared for it not to be, for the possibility of having to fight desk jockey here polishing a codpiece. But there’s no one in the room, just... artifacts.

“_Oh my god_,” Quentin breathes, sounding awed. “That’s– Rupert Chatwin’s sword. And the spy glass from _The Secret Sea_.”

“Shit, you’re right,” Margo agrees, sounding almost as giddy as Q. She grabs his arm, pointing. “That’s the compass from _The Flying Forest_.”

“Hey, nerds,” Eliot mutters, panic at the time crunch squishing even the desperate fondness Margo and Quentin could draw up in him, doubly powerful when combined. “We’ve got a mission. Leo blade?”

“Listen,” Margo says, hand on her hip. “We get exactly one chance to stand in this room, you better let me enjoy it.”

“25 minutes!” Eliot hisses at her. “Find the fucking blade, Margo.”

But it’s Eliot who finds it, tucked under a shelf containing some colored tiles, a pocket watch, and a single golden key. “I got it,” he hisses out, hovering his hand over the blade. It feels warm even without touching it, and he grits his teeth. Well, it’s not like he didn’t know he wasn’t at mastery yet. “Alice, come see if you can hold this.”

They crowd around, waiting with bated breath, as Alice reaches out and picks up the blade. She holds it in her hand, turning it over curiously. “It’s like holding a bowl that’s been in the microwave, or something,” she muses. “It’s not like it’s too hot to hold on to, but it’s not exactly comfortable, either. I don’t think I want to hold it while we run.”

“Running with knives is generally a bad idea,” Eliot agrees. “Especially in those heels.”

“There’s a sheath,” Quentin points, sitting just behind the stand which had held the blade. “Looks like you could slide it on a belt.”

“I’m not wearing a belt,” Alice mutters, looking down at her skirt like it might have grown one without her looking. 

“I am,” Quentin shrugs. “Do you think it would burn me through the sheath and my clothes?”

“You have two minutes to figure it out,” Eliot mutters, glancing down at his watch. Getting the blade settled takes almost two minutes, while Eliot paces in front of the door.

“Okay, I’m good, I’m good,” Quentin mutters, looking down at the blade on his hip. “Is it weird that I feel cool? Do I look cool? I feel cool.”

“You look like you’re going to Ren Faire,” Margo teases, digging her elbow into his side. 

“Thirty seconds,” Eliot hisses, hand on the door. “Remember, just run, run back to the exit we came through.” The watch ticks up to 30, starting to flash, and Eliot throws open the door.

They run.

Alarms start up the moment Quentin steps through the door, back of the pack to give the others as much of a headstart as possible before the alarms kick off. There’s no point trying to deal with phosphoromancy now, not when a fast escape is their best option. They just run, flat out, through the room of Relevant Texts and down the hallway full of doors. They’re about halfway down it when a door at the far end flies open, a Librarian in a grey suit stepping out.

“Shit,” Margo hisses, drawing to a stop long enough to fold her hands together and push out a blast of battle magic. It sends the Librarian crashing backwards into the wall, knocking the wind out of him long enough for them all to run pass, pelting down the long hallway of doors and into the Extinction room. Foot-falls pick up behind them, and Eliot knows with a sinking feeling that they haven’t shaken their pursuer even in the slightest. Skidding sideways into the stacks, Alice cuts a ragged path and they follow, trying to be unpredictable. 

With a grunt and tumble of feet, Quentin stumbles, losing his footing, and Eliot skids to a stop long enough to grab his hand, pull him to his feet and keep running as the Librarian gains on them. Pushing on, pushing forward, Eliot reaches out, gets ahold of Margo with the other hand, trying not to lose track of anyone as they push on, push, push, push on through the burning in his lungs. Around another set of stacks, and then the door to the Cosmology room is sight when–

Quentin’s sharp cry of pain rips through Eliot’s whole heart, as his hand is wrenched out of Eliot’s. He spins around to see Q yanked off his feet by his hair. The Librarian has him by the knot of the bun at the back of his head, dragging him backwards across the library floor.

“No!” Eliot shouts, breaking away from Margo’s clutching grip, reaching out for telekinesis with both hands. It’s easy, in the fear and anger and pain clouding his brain, to get the man by the throat, freeze him in place. Quentin’s struggling against the hold in his hair, and it’s everything Eliot can do to hold the librarian still. 

“Help him!” Eliot yells towards Margo and Alice, who’ve stalled out a couple feet away, but before either of them can move, Q– Reaches for the Leo Blade at his belt, drawing it out in a single swift movement. Eliot can practically _hear_ the sizzle of flesh on his hand, as he drags the blade upwards, not stabbing fruitless at the Librarian but slicing cleanly, efficiently, through his own hair. 

He drops the blade the second it’s free, scrabbling to get away from the man who’s still clutching the end of the knot of hair in his hand, froze in place.

“I hope you like the Underworld,” Eliot says viciously, grabbing the knife with his telekinesis and slicing through flesh as cleanly as Quentin had cut through his own hair. Blood spatters across Quentin’s face and clothes, and Eliot wants to be horrified, but there’s _no time._

“Eliot, the blade,” he says pointedly, and Eliot eases it back into the sheath on Quentin’s belt.

“We need to _move_, dickwads,” Margo yells from down the hall, and she’s right, they _do_. Quentin scrambles to his feet, reaching out for Eliot with his unburnt hand. Eliot takes it, feeling awed, purely awed, by his wonderful, smart little witch.

They run. 

And run.

And _run._

Other sets of footsteps begin echoing around the halls, other pursuers in chase, but no one seems to have managed to get ahead of them yet. Pushing through the last row of stacks in the biographies room, they scatter around the corner just in time to see– Julia and Kady dragging a limp Penny between them, arm around each of their shoulders.

“Margo, portal!” Eliot yells, not taking the time to stop, the time to wonder, and Margo, _beautiful_ Margo, _competent_ Margo, does just that. Throws her hands up in the fastest portal Eliot’s _ever_ seen, just as three, four, seven Librarians pour into the room. Moving without thinking, Eliot swings in to grab Penny’s arm, letting Kady duck out and throw up a shield. Quentin and Alice tumblr through the portal as Kady starts sending blast after blast of battle magic into the gathering crowd of Librarians. 

With a nod to Margo, Eliot steps towards the portal, dragging the heavy weight of Penny through with him, then Julia, and then Kady, and then finally Margo, the portal sliding shut behind her.

“We’re not done yet, fuckers,” Margo says grimmly, as they look around an unfamiliar alley. 

“Where are we?” Quentin wonders, squinting up at the sky.

“LA,” Margo mutters, turning. “I grew up here. Listen, we should run, they’ll probably trace the portal. We need to hop a couple times before we go back to the safehouse.”

So they run, through the sweltering heat down empty side streets, Eliot and Julia dragging Penny between them. Three more blocks, and they skid to a stop while Margo opens another portal. 

“You know, I think I need to do more cardio,” Quentin pants, hands on his knees.

“Want to take a turn carrying the unconscious traveler?” Eliot gripes back, shifting Penny’s weight on his shoulders.

“Pussy up,” Margo snaps, another Portal tearing into existence, and they all step through, coming out in– “Madrid.”

“Jesus, it’s lucky you get around,” Kady wheezes.

At Eliot’s side, Penny starts to shift, clearly coming back to himself, and Eliot shakes him a little, jolting him. “–The fuck?” Penny protests, groggily, using Eliot’s shoulder to find his feet.

“Are you oriented enough to travel?” Eliot asks, urgently. “They won’t be able to track you.”

“Yeah,” Penny blinks, looking around and then shaking his head. “That head Librarian dude got inside my wards, fucked with my telepathy. I’ll handle it.”

“Okay.” Eliot pauses for a second, as they all stand around waiting tensely. “So like– handle it soon, or what–”

“Fuck you, man,” Penny hisses, reaching out, as they all join hands and blink out of the Madrid sunset and into existance in the safehouse. 

“Did you get the blade?” Julia asks, collapsing to sit on the ground as Eliot turns, away from them, reaching up, reaching out to feel for the wards on the safe house. They’re entact, and he tightens them down even further, _only my coven, no one else is coming in tonight._

“We did,” Alice answers, and for the first time in what feels like days, Eliot lets himself breathe.

That’s not the end of it, of course. Now the real hard bit, the ‘_we have to kill a god_’ bit. But Penny’s bell was still wrung a little, and they’re all tired, worn out and exhausted. “We need a nap,” Eliot sighes, leaning into Margo’s side on the couch where she’s carefully not drinking wine in front of him. Everyone else is, though, and the temptation is there, it’s _strong_, to say ‘just this once, just to celebrate’ but– he knows himself.

“We can nap,” she agrees, “Harriet and Joaquin need a couple hours to get the omens set up anyway. We can do it in the morning.”

“I don’t think leaving the safehouse right now is a good idea,” Eliot admits, looking around at the rest of the group, at the open bottles of wine, Alice and Julia talking, Kady already half asleep with her head on Julia’s lap, Penny sitting while Mei scans his head. No Quentin though. “Where’s Q?”

“He disappeared after Julia finished fixing his hair,” Margo shrugs, and then gives him a fond look. “Go find your boyfriend so I can have a drink without feeling guilty, won’t you?”

“I see how it is,” he murmurs, fondly, pressing a kiss to her forehead and dragging his sore body to standing. 

He finds Quentin in his office, in front of the mirror Eliot keeps for his check-ins with Margo, face washed clean of blood and examining his new shorter hair. Julia had done a pretty good job cleaning it up, all things considered. The front was still long enough to flop over Quentin’s forehead a little, and she’d done a decent job evening out the length in the back. It was a little strange, a little not-quite-Q, when Eliot’s only ever known him with hair to his shoulders, but if Julia is to be believed this isn’t very unlike the style he’d had in undergrad. 

“There you are,” Eliot says softly, stepping into the room. “Everyone else is celebrating.”

“I don’t really feel like celebrating,” Quentin says with a sigh, twisting his head from one side to the other, examining it critically. “We’re not done yet.”

“We’re not,” Eliot agrees, stepping up behind him to wrap one arm around his waist. Quentin leans back into him, automatic, easy, and Eliot smiles at him in the mirror. Reaching up, he ruffles his fingers through the soft strands of hair at the back of Quentin’s head, so much shorter than he’s used too but still long enough to sink his fingers into. 

“Do you hate it?” Quentin asks softly, sounding nervous.

“No, baby, of course I don’t.” Eliot noses forward to push a kiss into the back of Quentin’s head, right where the little bun of hair had been, where he’d been grabbed. The hair was shortest here, still just a little uneven, but it would grow out fast enough to fix within weeks. “Honestly, I think you look cute as hell, but even if it didn’t suit you... it’s just hair. It’ll grow back. But–I’m so fucking impressed with you, Quentin.”

“I got caught,” Quentin says dully, reaching up to finger one of the short strands of hair hanging behind his left ear. The whole style swoops to the right, hanging in an adorable little wave and framing his face, genuinely a good look for him. It makes him look a little older, a little calmer, a little more put together.

“You got free,” Eliot corrects, swaying Quentin’s body against his own. “You handled yourself amazingly well under crisis. That worry you had, that you were a liability to us? Bury it. You were integral, Q.”

Quentin sighs, relaxing back into him, as Eliot wraps his other arm around his waist as well. “Thanks,” he mutters, not sounding entirely convinced. That was a longer battle, Eliot knew, and not one they could win right now.

“How’s your hand?” he asks instead. 

He watches through the mirror as Quentin flexes the hand in question, the skin on his palm still looking red and angry, but nowhere near as bad as it had. “A lot better. It mostly just feels like a bad sunburn, now. Mei’s a really good healer.”

“She is,” Eliot agrees, reaching forward to catch Q’s hand in his, palm to the back of his hand. With the utmost care, Eliot brings Q’s palm up, pressing a feather-light kiss to the center of it, careful of the healing burn. “Thank you for keeping your promise.”

Q twists around, nodding a little once he makes eye contact. “I love you,” he says simply, and Eliot gets it, he understands. _I don’t want to leave you_, it said, and Eliot thinks that maybe that’s an okay place to be at, right now, for Q. 

“Me too,” he returns, a promise of his own, leaning forward to press a kiss to the center of Q’s forehead, the corner of his eye, his soft sweet mouth. Quentin melts into him, easy and languid, always so happy to be kissed. They had mere _hours_ left to them before they had to move on Reynard, but there was nothing else Eliot could imagine wanting to do more with that time than being close to Quentin.

Time, he had learned long ago, was a precious, precious thing.

_

Goddess Omens.

What a weird thing to be reliant on. 

Still Harriet and Joaquin knew what they were doing, and Eliot trusts them to handle their shit. Which was how his little god-hunting group ends up in a field near a barn in upstate New York, waiting. Just waiting, waiting for this moment which is either going to save all their lives or end them. In an attempt to be smart, they’ve avoided clustering too much, Eliot and Quentin waiting in the barn, Alice and Penny in the forest nearby, Kady and Julia and Margo in the middle of the open field as bait. And all above them the sky lit up with lightning. 

“What if he doesn’t come?” Quentin asks softly, voice jagged with nerves. Eliot wants to reach out to him, hold him, get him close and hold him tight, but they have _jobs_ to do. They’re supposed to create shields, once Reynard appears, throw up enough of a barrier that he can’t get to any of the girls acting as bait. 

_You need two hands to cast_, he reminds himself, running through the modified spell in his mind. Eliot bounces on the balls of his feet, focusing himself. 

Another flash of lightning, bursting across the sky, and Eliot glances up at it on instinct. When he looks back down, there’s four figures standing on the ground, not three.

“Fuck,” he hisses, startling hard. “Q, now!”

But Q’s already casting, hands moving in practiced motions as they string up a barrier between Reynard and the girls. It should be enough to hold him off long enough for Penny to travel Alice in.

It should be.

It isn’t.

With a lazy flick of his fingers, Reynard disperses the shield like so much mist. Eliot can feel the hold he has on his magic rubbed away, an unnatural, disconcerting sense of something else exerting control over his power. The tether holding him connected to the shield dissolves along with it, and Eliot drops his hands, shooting Quentin a helpless, worried look.

“Now what?” Q whispers, and Eliot shrugs, watching in fascinated horror as Reynard turns to look towards the barn, then back towards the girls in front of him, pacing from Margo, to Julia, to Kady. There he stops, standing in front of her, wearing the body of her dead friend.

Reynard tilts his borrowed face at Kady, says something too quiet to be audible at this distance, but whatever it is enough to spook her, a look of shock and horror spreading across her face. Then everything breaks into motion all at once. Reynard reaches out with a slashing, ripping motion, moving to sink his hand into Kady’s chest, failing only because Julia tugs her out of the way. The motion hits her upper arm instead, rending, blood blooming across her shoulder and bicep as she cries out in pain.

At the same moment Margo turns and _sprints_ towards the barn, out of the line of fire so she can throw up a portal if she needs too, get them a way _out_ if everything goes to shit. Eliot bounces on the balls of his toes as he watches her run, heart in his throat as Penny and Alice blink into existence behind Reynard. The Leo Blade is out, glinting in Alice’s hand and there’s a moment, a heart-stopping moment, where Eliot thinks it’s going to work.

Thinks they might actually manage to do this.

Then time seems to stop.

Or freeze, or something in a little bubble surrounding Reynard. Margo’s far enough outside it that she manages to skid into the barn, but Penny and Alice are caught up by it, Alice’s hand held high with the blade in the air. Eliot can feel panic building as Reynard rounds on her, waves his hand in a lazy motion and her arm _breaks visibly_, the blade falling limp 

“Oh, fuck,” Quentin whispers, brow pinch in horror as he ducks further back into the shelter of the barn, to stand beside Margo, clutch her hand. Eliot, though–

Eliot can’t look away as Reynard steps down on the blade and it– it snap. Snaps like so much glass, with a _pop_ of energy visible inside the time bubble. 

“He broke the blade,” Eliot whispers, panicked, watching prowls Reynard circles around the little bubble of frozen time, bending down to sniff Alice’s hair, and then Julia’s. Revulsion crawls up Eliot’s spine, horror at the possibility of what might be about to happen and there’s _nothing_ he can do about it. “Oh fuck, what– we’ve got to help them somehow.”

“How are we supposed to do that,” Margo hisses, hands on her knees. “He recognized Kady. Realized it was an ambush right away. If _Penny_ couldn’t sneak up on him then there’s no way I can.”

“We need the blade,” Quentin hisses quietly, pressed back into the wall of the barn. 

“It’s broken,” Eliot points out, and fuck he _can hear_ that he’s on the edge of hysteria. But he can see Kady and Julia and Penny and Alice all frozen in place in the middle of the field, Renyard circling them like a predator. 

“I can mend it,” Quentin says, determination like steel in his voice.

“I’m not sure you can, Q, it’s an incredibly powerful object–” Margo starts, but Quentin, with a confidence Eliot’s rarely seen from him, shakes his head.

“It’s a small object. Doesn’t matter how powerful it is. I can feel it, even now, calling to me. It wants to be whole so badly.” 

“I could maybe pull it over to us,” Eliot mutters, heart slamming in his chest. “But there’s no way in hell that he won’t notice it flying over here. Especially if he already knows we’re here, which I think he does. He saw Margo run in here, and I think he felt the source of those shields.”

“Do you think Penny can still travel while frozen?” Margo whispers, peeking around the corner. “Travelers don’t need tuts or speech to move, they just– blink in and out. Maybe he could blink over next to the blade and then over here.”

“Let’s find out,” Eliot mutters, carefully deconstructing the wards he keeps around his consciousness, reaching out towards Penny with tendrils of thought. _In the barn, bring the shards of the blade, bring the blade to the barn, bring the blade to the barn._

It takes a moment, almost long enough that Eliot almost gives up. But once Reynard turns back towards Kady, presumably to play with his fucking food some more, he has his back to both Penny, and where the blade lies a 10 feet away. Then in a silent shivery blip, Penny vanishes, and reappears, outside the bubble of frozen time, moving freely and gathering up the blade. Reynard spins around just in time to watch him vanish, angry cry _ripping_ through the air. 

“Should have gone farther than that, traveler!” he calls out, as Penny blinks into existence in their little huddle in the barn. “I can feel you close by. I’ll find you after I’m done with them.”

But Quentin’s already moving, standing over where Penny had dropped the too-hot shards of the Leo Blade. His hands move quickly through the motions for the tut for minor mending, then the blade lifts off the ground and there’s a pull of power into Q. The blade begins to rotate in the air, cracks and shards sealing themselves as magic follows through him. It’s a raw, enormous amount of power, so much Eliot’s terrified for a moment that Q can’t handle it, that he’s going to niffin out trying to wield it. But wield it he does, the edges of the Leo blade glowing as it settles back onto the ground– whole.

“He’s going to kill Kady,” Penny says, and edge of steel to his voice. “We still can’t touch this blade.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Eliot shakes is head, grabbing the blade with telekinesis so it’s hovering in the air between them, without even time to think. “I need a distraction, can you get him to face away from the barn?”

“Yes,” Quentin says, at the same time Penny says “Obviously.”

“Go,” Eliot mutters, turning to Margo. “Get a portal ready. If this doesn’t work, we need to get everyone, we need to bail out–”

“Not without Julia and the rest,” Quentin starts, voice panicky and Eliot shakes his head.

“Then travel them out. We don’t have time, you need to _go_.” Margo, beautiful Margo, competent Margo, ignores them all, starting the motions for the portal. Penny grabs Quentin’s arm and blinks out of existence, appearing on the other side of the circle of frozen time.

“_Hey,_” Quentin shouts, and Eliot moves without waiting, without time to think or breath or do anything but act on instinct, flinging the magic holding the blade towards Reynard, point aimed directly at his chest. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?”

Reynard’s angry howl is cut short by a whimper, and Eliot can _feel_ the blade make contact, the resistance to the motion of his kinetic magic. He drives it in deeper then withdraws and pushes forward again, and again, and again, sinking the blade into the meat of Reynard’s body. They’re too far away to see what’s happening in any detail, but a gold shimmer seems to be forming around Reynard, and the bubble of frozen time magic breaks. 

“Come here,” Penny shouts, as the sky above them begin to darken, a sudden on set of rolling clouds, flashes of lightning pulling down towards Reynard.

“Oh Jesus, he’s a fucking _god_,” Eliot groans, terrified again for a moment that they’re failed, that he’s sent everyone one to their deaths.

“We need to go,” Margo hisses, and Eliot shakes his head, watching as Julia and Kady and Alice scramble up, bleeding and broken but running towards Penny, who’s still got a hold of Q. Alice grabs the blade with her good hand as she passes, Eliot feels the tug against his magic and releases it, lets her take it. She drags the blade across Reynard’s neck in a spray of arterial blood visible even from this distance, and Reynard drops to the ground, the shimmer of golden magic floating in the air. Julia runs _through_ it, the most direct path towards Penny, and Eliot watches with a sense of foreboding as it seems to cling to her, follows her. “Eliot, _now_.”

Eliot watches them all reach for each other, and then he turns, towards Margo’s tugging hands and lets himself be pulled through a portal and into– the fucking Island of Delos?

“Margo?” he breathes, feeling panic rising in his chest.

“Can’t be too careful,” she mutters, already tracing another portal. “We’re gonna hop around a bit, okay?”

Eliot nods, and watches her pull open another tear in the world, stepping through this time into the ally outside their favorite pub in London. Another handful of moments, and the portal opens again, spilling them out right outside the Brakebills wards, because Margo is a clever, clever girl. They step through the protective bubble of the wards, feeling the rush of warmth and sunlight form the seasonal displacement spell, and Margo begins another portal. Weary, worried, Eliot steps through, out into the familiar entryway to their safehouse. 

Eliot has just enough time to take in the people gathered there, Julia on the floor holding a bleeding Kady, Mei crouched in front of them, Alice and Penny off to the side while Alice cradles her broken arm to her chest, before he’s _slammed_ backwards with an armful of terrified Q.

“_Eliot,_” Quentin groans, and Eliot wraps him up on instinct, holds him close. He can _feel_ Quentin shaking in his arms, shaking all over, and Eliot’s chest feels too tight, hot wet pressure behind his eyes.

“I’m fine, I’m here,” Eliot murmurs, soft enough that only Quentin can hear him as he clings, as Eliot clings right back. “You were _amazing_, Q. The way you mended that blade, little witch, that was incredible. You’re so fucking strong.”

“You did it, you killed him,” Quentin mutters back, pulling back just far enough to go up on his toes, press into a kiss, and another, and another.

“_We_ did it,” Eliot corrects, then louder, to everyone else, battered and exhausted, but alive. “We _did it_. All of us.”

Margo lets out a weak little laugh, and it catches, grows, until they’re all laughing, slumped against the walls or the furniture or each other. Eliot reaches out for Margo, draws her in close on one side so he can press a kiss to her forehead, so he can hold them both close, Margo under one arm and Quentin under the other.

“We fucking did it,” Kady sighs, collapsing back into Julia’s arms, her torn apart arm mostly mended under Mei’s careful hands. Julia presses a kiss into her curls, and Eliot feels affection swell inside him as he looks on, looks out at this collection of people who have become the heart of the thing he’s dedicated his life to building.

“You know, we make a pretty good team,” Julia points out, laughter in her voice as she glances around at them all, their rag-tag little group of Magicians and Witches. “I can’t think of anyone else besides you all I’d want to have at my back ever again.”

“Yeah, speak for yourself, I hope never to see any of you fuckers ever again,” Penny drawls, but there’s no heat to it, no intention behind the words. Next to him, Alice snorts, rolling her eyes, a brittle little smile on her face. 

“A pretty good team,” Eliot agrees, looking down at Quentin, who’s smiling, dimples creasing the corners of his mouth as he looks out over the group. Heart full, Eliot presses a kiss to the side of his cheek, tips his forehead to rest against Quentin’s temple, Q’s short hair tickling his nose.

They weren’t out of hot water yet, he knows that. There’s still the threat of the Library, their actions the spark to a tinderbox of which they couldn’t begin to predict the following blaze. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility to imagine that there would be some kind of consequence for killing Reynard, though there was no way to know what it might be yet. Everything in Eliot was saying _prepare, be ready, something’s coming._

But for now, they can take a breath. For now, for the first time in months, there was no threat hanging immediately over their shoulders. Somehow, miraculously, they’ve all come home. He has his Bambi in one arm, and his little witch in the other. 

Eliot breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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